


Everything He Knows Collection (and some others) by Frayach

by kellankyle



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Anal Beads, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Figging, Fisting, Food Porn, M/M, Phone Sex, Rimming, Snowballing, Sounding, Squick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 04:49:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5116223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellankyle/pseuds/kellankyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These wonderful stories were written by Frayach. She has given me permission to post these as a collection on her behalf. Love you and miss you, girl!</p><p>Brian claims to have taught Justin everything Justin knows. Alas, we are left to merely imagine the details. This is a collection of stand-alone stories.</p><p>*tags are general for entire collection</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anal Beads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Frayach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/gifts).



> Brian teaches Justin the art of *really* enjoying getting rimmed.

There's no ascertainable segue when, between French fries, Brian suddenly says, "You see, this is how it is: you need to learn not only how to give, but to receive as well. Getting off on being rimmed isn't a passive act. You can't just lie there. It's an art that needs a lot of practice."

My mouth is full, so I can only nod and hope my enthusiasm is clear nonetheless. I like the concept. It's a good concept. I also like art . . . and practice. Well, not soccer or piano practice, which I used to hate, but practice getting off on being rimmed sounds like fun. A whole lotta fun.

He dips another fry in ketchup and stuffs it in his mouth. Yes, "stuffs." I bet you'd never guess it, but Brian Kinney can sometimes be a total pig - and not only when he's stoned. He can just be a regular, plain, ol' pig like the rest of us mere mortals. I was both surprised and relieved when I first realized that fact. He may have the body of a God, but I like to be reminded that he's otherwise human. A human who is currently waving his hand in front of my face.

"Hello, earth to Sunshine," he says. "Are you really that hungover? You only had three shots."

"And hopefully three glasses of water to rehydrate him."

"Mikey!" Brian exclaims when he sees the brown-haired busybody walk up to our booth. "You're just in time."

Michael frowns with suspicion.

"For what?"

Brian pats the seat beside him, and Michael - because he's trained better than a seeing-eye dog - obediently sits down next to his best friend-slash-cock tease.

"I was just telling Justin here that, not only must one learn how to give, one must also learn how to receive."

"Are we talking Christmas presents?" Michael asks. "Please say we're talking about Christmas presents."

"We are definitely not talking about Christmas presents, unless, of course, Santa plans to come up your chimney," Brian says because Michael's presence turns him into a barely pubescent junior high school boy.

Gross.

Michael chortles.

"But," Brian adds. "One could say that we are talking about gifts in a more general sense - as in talents of which, as everyone knows, I have many."

Michael nods sycophantically. 

"You're the best ad exec at your agency," he says as though Brian feels like he needs to be reminded of how awesome he is.

Apparently he does.

"Why, thank you, Mikey," he says. "What else am I the most talented at?"

"You can find the best weed in the city in less than an hour and buy it on credit."

"And?"

"You can hook-up with any guy you want at Babylon."

"Not just Babylon. You forgot Woody's and the gym. Never forget the gym."

"You're the best dressed man in the mid-west."

"The mid-west? Mikey, the Pitts is in the east and, besides, being the best dressed man in the Bible Belt is hardly a high bar."

"You're awesome at bowling."

"For which we can thank my dear ol' dad."

"You've memorized the words in almost every Marlon Brando movie."

"All except 'Apocalypse Now.' Still working on that one."

Tell me about it. I've had to watch the crazy-ass thing, like, a million times. Why can't he be into an actor like Ashton Kutcher, who, by the way, looks freakishly like him . . .

"You can sing and play guitar better than Robert Smith."

"Yes, and?"

"Uhm . . . well, you're really good at pool."

No, he's not. He sucks at pool. I think it, but I don't say it. I'm not stupid. I want to get laid. Sulking and watching 'I Love Lucy' at Deb's is definitely NOT my idea of a day well-spent.

"And you're good at darts, too. Also, you can drink anyone under the table . . ."

"More like blow them under the table," Brian says, finally starting to sound bored with Michael's litany of awesomeness. "You've forgotten my most sought-after talent. Justin's not interested in my brilliant ad campaigns."

"Well, he should be," Michael says indignantly.

I roll my eyes. Brian catches me and winks. I give him my biggest, widest, awesomest Sunshiny grin.

It may be my imagination . . . hell, who am I kidding, it probably is my imagination . . . but Brian's expression goes soft and affectionate for a second. But then he turns to Michael.

"My greatest talent," he says dramatically, implying the sound of a drumroll, "is my ability to get off on nothing more than a good rim job and a few seconds of jerking off. No pillow-humping necessary. Just a good, old-fashion tongue-fuck is all I need."

Both my dick and my eyebrows take notice of his words. Brian can reach orgasm on little more than a rim job? Last I knew, he didn't even want to let his asshole come out to play. I smile sillily as I revisit my fond memories of meeting the adorable little guy.

"Stop reminiscing about my asshole," Brian says.

Michael makes a sound that could either be a gag or a sob. Most likely something in-between. I have the sneaking suspicion he'd sell Deb's soul for a glimpse of the treasure between Brian's ass cheeks.

I smirk at him. Brian catches me.

"Justin," he says. "Stop that."

He's serious. I blush and proceed to study what remains of my hamburger with rapt attention as though I'll be quizzed about it on Monday.

"No one comes from a rim-job," Michael says. "Especially not you."

Brian laughs fondly and puts his arm around Michael's shoulders.

"Okay, Mikey," he says. "You're right. I can't come from a rim-job."

Michael smiles at him with equal fondness.

"Thank you," he says.

Jesus Christ! The two of them are SO weird! Poor Michael. He can't deal with the thought of anyone touching Brian at all, let alone his asshole (and let alone me), so Brian pretends that no one does even though Michael knows he's lying. Warped much?

"Chow down," Brian says to me. "There are places to go and things to do."

My dick had gotten distracted by the WTFness of Brian and Michael's relationship - and not in a good way - but now it perks-up again. I know what Brian means. He'd all but said Hurry up! I'm horny as hell and need to fuck your pert bum before my balls explode.

I eat my hamburger so fast that I choke on it. When I start coughing, Brian moves to sit beside me so he can thump me on the back.

"Easy now," he says. "Don't kick the bucket on me. If you're going to choke on something, I want it to be my dick."

When I stop hacking, I glance at Michael through watering eyes. He looks like a kicked puppy. Brian stands up and goes back to his seat. When he sits down, he takes Michael's chin in his hand and kisses him too intimately for me not to feel jealous.

"See you at Woody's," he says.

Surprisingly, Michael can recognize a way to save-face when he sees it. He wipes his mouth. 

"Ugh. You taste like greasy fries."

"Bye bye, Mikey," Brian says, standing up. "C'mon, Justin." 

He takes a twenty out of his wallet, gives it to the cashier, and walks to the door with a farewell to Deb and not a second glance at me.

I shove my plate away and go trotting after him.

Michael snickers.

Asshole. Like he doesn't trot after Brian, too. Pot/kettle, Mikey. Pot-fucking-kettle.

"So," Brian says as we walk toward his building with our chins tucked in our collars and our hands shoved in our pockets in a mostly-vain attempt to stay warm. "Do you want to rim me again?" His breath smokes in the sunless morning air.

I can't answer. "Why?" you might ask. Because I've swallowed my tongue, and one needs their tongue to talk. No need to look it up. It's a well-known anatomical fact. 

Brian laughs. I must've made an embarrassing little sound of some kind.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

I eagerly express my agreement. Suddenly I don't feel cold anymore. Quite the opposite. I've gotten so warm at the thought of rimming him that I'm actually considering taking off my parka, but by then we've reached our destination.

We take the elevator. I LOVE taking the elevator. It means he's going to kiss me, and not in a neat, tidy way. He's going to stick his tongue down my throat and get spit all over our chins.

I'm not disappointed.

I'm breathing hard and feeling lightheaded when we finally enter the loft and close the door behind us.

"First things first," Brian says, stripping off his coat and leaning down to pull off his boots. "Let's take a shower. If you're like me, then you want to be sure your ass is clean before a guy gives you a proper rim job."

I glare at him. I HATE it when he implies that asses aren't just for fucking and fingering.

He laughs. He always does. It's annoying.

"Too bad, Sunshine," he says far too cheerfully. "Shit happens."

I roll my eyes.

He comes over and sslloowwllyy unzips my parka.

"Look," he says. "Facts are facts. Learn to deal with them, or you're not going to fully enjoy getting rimmed. To fully enjoy it, you want to feel as clean as your comfort level requires."

The coin drops. "You didn't feel comfortable when I rimmed you the first time."

"Not as much as I like to," he admits. "I wasn't expecting to have my ass chomped on by a hungry hyena disguised as a mild-mannered twink. Now in the shower. Chop, chop. But first take a crap if you need to."

"I don't, and I hate you," I say. Because I do.

"You'll hate sharing that plate of pancakes you ate yesterday even more."

I just stare at him.

"Brian," I say after a few seconds of wishing I lived on an uninhabited planet. "This is SO NOT romantic."

"Whoever said fucking is romantic?"

Oh yeah. Right. For a second I forgot who I was talking to. Suddenly, I feel less warm-and-fuzzy about our first night together . . . well, as warm-and-fuzzy as I'm capable of feeling knowing the bastard hadn't even bothered to remember my name . . . . That said, I do remember taking a VERY thorough shower before I'd left home that night with the ardent hope that someone would be all-about my ass . . . .

"Don't worry," he says. "Your ass was as clean as a famine victim's plate."

I crack up because three things are hilarious. One, his analogy. Two, the fact he read my mind, and three, because he may not have remembered my name, but he clearly remembered the taste of my ass and wanted more. It's as big a compliment as Mr. Kinney is capable of giving.

"Ah," he says with relief. "There we go. A laugh. Now, get your ass in the shower. I'll scrub yours, and you can scrub mine."

"Is that the same as 'I'll scratch your back, if you scratch mine'?" I ask. "A quid pro quo?"

He grins. "Everything about sex - at least good sex - is quid pro quo."

I grin back. It's all good. Even the poop lecture. Well, okay . . . maybe not the poop lecture, but that's okay. Unlike with anyone else, when it comes to Brian, I'm willing to put up with his shit - or lack thereof as the case may be.

 

Fifteen minutes later, we leave the shower freshly buffed and scrubbed, our skin pink from the heat. I feel my chin.

"I've got some stubble," I say. "Do you want me to . . . ?"

"Excuse me?" he says. "I don't think I heard you. Did you just say 'I've got some stubble'?"

Asshole.

"Yes, that's what I said. My balls really have dropped. I really can grow whiskers; they're just hard to see because I'm blond."

He chuckles indulgently because he knows I have to shave only two or three times a week, whereas he sometimes has to shave twice a day. I watch as he shakes the water from his hair. I love it when he does that. It reminds me of the first time I kissed him - or rather he kissed me.

"No, don't shave," he replies. "I like a little stubble burn. It adds to the whole experience."

He smiles when he sees my eyes go all hazy with desire and my dick start to swell. He kisses me deeply and for a very long time. He may have washed every inch of his body, but I'm relieved that he didn't go so far as to brush his teeth. I don't want mint - I want him, greasy fries and all.

"No toothpaste," he says when he pulls back. "And no scented soap. Spit shouldn't taste like Crest, and ass shouldn't taste like Dove - or smell like it either. And don't even get me going on fruity lube."

I ignore him. "Did you know you can get coffee flavor?" I tease.

He shudders and makes a gagging sound. I laugh.

"Speaking of lube," he says. "What did I tell you last week?"

"It should always be water-based," I reply dutifully.

"Why?"

"Because petroleum destroys latex."

"And?"

"It tastes like the pavement of a parking lot."

"Very good," he says. "All right, enough talking and more doing."

He goes over to his Drawer Of Awesome and pulls out the biggest butt plug I've seen yet. It's made from rock-hard plastic and covered with bumps.

"I'm going to show you how to have the best rim-job of your life," he says, holding it up and admiring it like a vase from the dawn of the Ming dynasty.

I nod vigorously. It sounds like a useful lesson - much more useful than a lesson about the political symbolism in James Joyce's "Ulysses" . . . . well, actually that's too low a bar. Any lesson is more useful than a lesson about the political symbolism in James Joyce's "Ulysses."

"Stop thinking about English class and lube this baby up," he says.

I boggle at him. How does he do that?? I can't decide whether I'm freaked out or impressed. Probably a bit of both.

He lies down on the bed and rolls over onto his stomach, splaying his lean body against the midnight-blue sheets. Suddenly it's like James Joyce never lived and stupid "Ulysses" was never written. In fact, nothing has ever existed before this moment as Brian positions himself perfectly - legs spread and hips canted just so - for me to see every millimeter of his ass crack and everything in its vicinity. His tail bone. His asshole. His perineum. His balls, full and heavy in their sack. He has beautiful balls, as in really fucking beautiful.

"Today," he purrs like some kind of sexy tiger-creature and flexes the muscles in his buttocks, giving them dimples.

I shake myself out of my trance and get on the bed beside him. There's a giant, Costco-sized container of lube on his nightstand, and I use it to liberally coat the butt plug he'd given me. I'm puzzled though.

"I thought you were going to let me rim you," I say.

"I am," he replies.

"Then why the plug?"

"You'll see. Is it ready?"

"I think so."

He hums with appreciation and cants his hips just a little bit more.

"Don't you want a pillow?" I ask. "That looks uncomfortable."

"It is a little uncomfortable," he says. "But I like that. Being a little uncomfortable - at least for me - makes getting rimmed even hotter. Besides, my ass looks great like this."

I nod even though he can't see me because it's true. His ass really does look great like that. So does his back. He's bracing himself with his arms, and his spine is rounded in a downward arch. And did I mention I can see everything?

"Put it in me," he says.

I notice his hole loosen all on its own just in mere anticipation of what's about to happen. I know from experience that he loves having things in his ass. He drops his head. His breaths are already coming shallow and fast. 

He wants this so fucking badly.

As the old saying goes, there's no need to twist my arm.

I position myself between his spread legs and press the tip of the plug against his entrance. It's shaped like the head of a cock and slippery with lube, so it slides right in. I watch with rapt attention as his anus stretches to accept it. The puckered skin looks taut to the point of pain. He confirms my suspicion with several hitched gasps and an agonized-sounding groan.

I panic.

"Are you okay?" 

He groans again.

"Better than okay."

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"Of course, it hurts. Assholes aren't designed for stuff being pushed into them - especially not something that fucking big . . . . . ahhhh . . . fuck that feels good."

It was weird at first - the whole idea that one can use the words "hurt" and "good" to describe the same act (despite John Cougar Mellencamp's stupid song) - but I'm starting to get it.

"Deeper," he says.

I frown. 

"But it gets even bigger."

He laughs breathlessly. "That's why I chose it. Don't worry, just do it."

"You realize you just combined the chorus of a Bobby McFerrin song with Nike's slogan," I say.

"Sunshine?" he replies.

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

I'd laugh, but I'm too consumed with awe as I watch his asshole open wider to swallow the increasing girth of the plug, which at its widest, has a circumference roughly the size of a soda can.

Clearly impatient with my slow progress, he rises to his knees and pushes back, forcing the plug as deep into his body as it can go.

All I can do is stare. I never even imagined someone could enjoy having his asshole stretched open that much! I wonder briefly if Brian has ever been fisted - if he has, then obviously he'd enjoyed it. A wave on jealousy washes over me. Did he enjoy it as much as he's enjoying himself now?

Clearly he's doing exactly that - actually, he seems not only to take pleasure in it, but crave it as well. He's rocking slightly forward and back, forward and back, forward and back, fucking himself and moaning with a low growling sound the whole time. I clench the two fingers holding the ring at the base of the plug, afraid he might push back too fast and too far and swallow the whole dang thing. 

After a few minutes, he tells me to pull it out steadily but slowly . . . very slowly. I watch, fixated, as the backward movement of the plug and the way the bumps catch on the rim of his hole reveal the inside of him - the bright pink flesh of his rectum.

I feel faint with a kind of wanting I've never felt before . . . something about seeing the inside of his body like this . . . it's even more intimate than just seeing his asshole stretched wide. It's . . . .

. . . suddenly and too soon, the plug slides out of him. He immediately moves to place his head on his pillow so he can reach back and spread himself open.

"Eat me," he demands. "Stick your tongue in me - but just the tip. See that pink? Touch it. It's the most sensitive part of my whole fucking body right now."

I position myself so I can do what he asked. His skin is velvet-soft and hot and slippery-slick with lube. Curious how he'll react, I careful trace the pink ring with the tip of my tongue before sticking it in. He makes a sobbing sound and tries his infinite best to spread his ass cheeks even wider.

"Like that," he gasps. "Just like that. Don't stop . . . Jesus fucking Christ, don't you dare fucking stop."

He needn't have said anything. There's no way I'll stop until he comes and I get to feel his asshole open and close around my tongue with his orgasm's contractions.

"Gotta . . . jerk-off," he pants. "Hold me open - don't let my hole close up . . . fuck!"

I do as he says and watch the bright pink around his rim pulse with the rhythm of his heartbeat. It's . . . well, it's beautiful. The color, the convulsive movement, the sounds he's making, the way his body jerks as he strokes himself, pumping his cock fast and hard.

"Tongue . . ." he gasps.

It's the only word he's capable of, so he's lucky I understand what he wants. I lean down and return to teasing his delicate flesh. My tongue caresses him, circling his hole as he starts to shake.

"Beads ...."

This time, it takes me a moment to figure out what he wants, but then I get it. He wants his anal beads. I feel a little faint again because I know what's about to happen and how it's going to look . . . .

With just the gentlest of encouragement, his body accepts each silver ball. I watch them slide in until the last one disappears.

At his impassioned request, I resume licking him, every now and then tugging on the string until I feel his body seize on the razor-thin instant of orgasm.

"Pull . . ." his groans. "Oh, God!"

Slowly, one by one, I pull the balls free, stopping now and then to lick the excruciatingly sensitive pink ring. Suddenly, and surely at his design, he comes right as the last emerges, the contractions of his orgasm pulsing around it and pushing it out into my waiting palm. He cries out with a choked command to keep licking even as his body starts to shake.

Jesus Christ!

He comes again a minute later when I roll him over, reinsert the butt plug, and swallow his cock deeper than I ever have before. Deeper than is probably safe, but I don't care. I've never seen - or even imagined - anything hotter in my whole, entire, God-given life.

When I finish coughing, I wipe my watering eyes and gaze down at his face. It's flushed and his hair isn't just damp with sweat - it's positively soaked. He looks dazed, like he's on the edge of blacking-out. His eyelids flutter as he gasps for breath.

"I . . ." he says weakly after a while.

I reach down and cup the side of his face.

"You . . ." he says, his voice only slightly stronger.

He turns his head to kiss my palm, and I realize that's the only answer I'll get if I ask him to elaborate.

It's enough. More than enough, actually. Because, man, I'd knocked the ball out of the motherfucking park!

I grin. His smile is wobbly.

"Good?" I ask. My voice is raspy and my throat hurts, but I couldn't care less.

He nods. "Yeah," he croaks. "Yeah, that was good."

He turns his head to kiss my palm again when I burst into a coughing fit.

"You realize this is the second time today I've almost had to use the Heimlich maneuver on you," he says. 

I can only nod my head. If I could speak, I'd tell him that blowing him was better than even "Chef" Bob's best burger. Much better. If I'm going to choke to death on something, I'd much prefer Brian's cock.

"So," he says. "That is how you receive a rim job. I hope you took notes."

I laugh because I don't need to write my memories down. They're forever branded on my mind - and he knows it.

"Good, because it's your turn now," he says and then laughs in return when my jaw drops and a thin trickle of drool escapes the corner of my mouth.

He pushes himself into a sitting position.

"I just need a couple minutes to recover and a glass of ice water with a lemon wedge," he says.

It's an unsubtle hint to get my ass to the kitchen.

Needless to say, I don't need a second one. Playing the happy helper is well worth the effort - no matter how onerous the task. The only drawback is that when I return, Brian has nodded off. I smile and kiss his cheek. I'll have to wait a while for my turn, but judging from his blissful expression, I'm more than certain it'll be worth it.


	2. Exhibitionism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian teaches Justin about Babylon's backroom.

When I was eleven, my parents took me, Daphne and Molly to Disney World. Almost to this day, I’ve never experienced such rapture. The Magic Kingdom! Cinderella! Rollercoasters! Fireworks! If I’d been some kind of prepubescent saint or something, you could say I was visited by God when Goofy took my hand and posed with me for a picture. Returning to real life was terrible. I’d had a taste of ecstasy! How was I ever going to refocus on math and soccer practice? It seemed to take ages – coming back down to the mundane. To my boring Mr. Roger’s life.

Now, at seventeen, I feel the exact same way about Babylon. The lights! The drugs! The thumping base and naked, sweaty bodies! It’s a magical place – a place so unreal and different from my day-to-day life that when I’m not here, it seems to only exist in my head. In my dreams. Monday mornings, I feel like Dorothy dumped on her ass back in Kansas. The world is monochrome and tedious. The time ticking ticking ticking, flowing like cold molasses toward the next weekend. My next visit to Babylon.

Which is where I am right now. Dancing with the love of my life. Brian Kinney. The most beautiful, brilliant man who ever lived and ever will. He seems even hornier than usual tonight, which, as you know, is saying something. We’re dancing close, moving together to the thumpa thumpa. He’s high on E and the thrill of landing a big account. His face is flushed and shiny with sweat. His hands are grabbing my ass, and he’s grinding his erection against my stomach all the while talking dirty in my ear.

“Feel that?” he growls. “My cock is so hard. Feel how hard you make it. I could come like this – I could come in my jeans. I’m so fucking horny. I haven’t come all day . . .”

I pull back so I can look at him.

“You haven’t come all day?” I have to shout so he can hear me over the music.

“Nope. I’ve been waiting for you to blow me.”

That’s it. Contest over. My dick is having the best night of its life. It . . . I mean, I love blowing Brian. It’s even more fun than riding Space Mountain. He gets so hard that I can feel his pulse against my lips, his blood thrumming through the bulging veins.

“Me!?” I gasp because . . . holy shit! I can’t picture him ever going twenty-four hours without coming for anyone, let alone me!

“You,” he purrs, bending his knees slightly so he can rub his hard-on against mine. “Think you can handle it?”

“‘Think?’ I know!”

He grins at me. “Thata boy. I knew I was keeping you around for a reason.”

“So when can I do it?” I ask eagerly. “Can we go home after this song?”

“We don’t have to go home,” he says. “We can do it right here, right now.”

“Right now? As in right now?”

“Yes, right now. In the backroom.”

Phew! I thought he was talking about right here, right now on the dance floor. Still . . . the backroom . . .

“But . . . but . . . ,” I stammer. You see, we’ve never done anything in the backroom before. Heck, I’ve never even been back there! It’s kind of . . . well, it seems kind of off-limits like the teachers’ lounge or something.

“Is that ‘but’ with one ‘t’ or two?” he says because he’s sometimes really juvenile. “I ask because I’ve got a little surprise for you.”

I’m intrigued – of course, I’m intrigued. Duh! But I’m also nervous. Won’t there be people around in the backroom? Will they watch? What if I screw up? What if I can’t make him come? What if I gag or something? It won’t be the first time. I’m still working on suppressing the reflex. After all, it’s not like deep throating is common sense. The body’s not crazy about having something fucking its tonsils like a battering ram. I also like to breathe. That’s always a plus . . .

“You’ll be fine,” he says. “What do you say?”

“Uhm . . . yeah. Okay. I just . . . will you promise we’ll stop if I start making a fool of myself?”

“I promise,” he says with uncharacteristic tenderness. “But you’re not going to make a fool of yourself. I wouldn’t take you back there if I thought you might. Now, c’mon.”

He turns me around and puts his hands on my shoulders, steering me toward the place that I’ve always wanted to see, but never had the balls to go in . . . at least not alone . . .

And, to be honest? One of the reasons I’ve never satisfied my curiosity about the backroom is that I’ve never wanted to encounter him there getting blown by some random dude. I mean, I know that’s what’s happening when he disappears for what feels like ages, leaving me to be babysat by The Boys, but suspecting and actually seeing are two very different things.

But at least tonight I won’t have to worry about that. It’s me he’s with, not some nameless beefed-up guy with too much product in his hair.

Brian guides me through the Forbidden Door . . . . . . God, my mom would freak if she could see me right now! There are half-naked guys everywhere, their skin ruddy under the red, hot lights, making them look like they’re on fire. I see a guy I recognize, which feels really weird because . . . well, he comes into the diner all the time and orders meatloaf and mashed potatoes with gravy. It’s really bizarre seeing him here with his pants down getting fucked by a guy wearing a Santa Claus beard and chaps. I stop short, and Brian bumps into me.

“What’s wrong,” he says, having to shout again, but this time over grunts and groans rather than music.

“I . . . are you going to fuck me?” I ask. “Because I don’t want to do that. It’s . . . well, I’m sorry if this sounds quaint, but making love . . . I mean fucking . . . is kind of, like, a private thing for me.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to fuck you,” he says. “I don’t usually fuck guys here.”

“You don’t? Why not?”

“I don’t like people seeing my bare ass.”

I laugh because that strikes me as really funny for some reason.

“But it’s okay if they see your dick.”

He shrugs. “Showing off my dick isn’t a big deal; showing off my bare ass is.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s the possibility someone’s going to want to try to fuck me.”

I blink up at him. Is he speaking from experience?

“And you don’t want that?”

“Hell, no, I don’t want it,” he says as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Has . . . have you ever done it? I mean, get fucked back here?”

“No, and I don’t intend to be. It almost happened once a long time ago . . . but not by agreement. And that’s all I’m going to say about it, so don’t bother asking any more questions.”

He turns me around again and steers me down the corridor, around a corner and through a doorway draped with chains. I’m starting to feel like Dante to Brian’s Virgil.

The place where he’s taken me to is much different from the first. It’s a room, not something that felt like just a hallway, and it’s lit with blue light, not red. It reminds me of his bedroom, which immediately helps me relax. It’s also quieter. There are fewer guys and they seem older than the guys in the corridor.

“This room is kind of an unofficial member’s only club,” Brian says. “I know all the guys who come back here, and they know me. It’s for serious fucking, not just getting your rocks off in five minutes and going back out to the dance floor. This is where I go. No one will touch me here unless I make it clear that I want him to. When you hook up with a trick and want to go to the backroom, this is where you’re going to go. Here and only here, because here’s the ugly truth. You can get raped in the backroom. All those guys out there?” He gestures with his head to the corridor we just came from. “Chances are they’re not going to help you. Hell, they’ll probably get off on it. Back here – especially if these guys know that . . . that you’re my . . . that you’re someone I bring back here more than once, you’re safe. No one’s gonna touch you unless you want them to. Got it? Only trick in here. Don’t risk an encounter anywhere else. Don’t make me have to break my hand on some asshole’s face.”

He laughs as though what he’d said is no big deal, and I goggle at him. Did he just say he’d fight any guy who tried to touch me without my consent??

He breaks off my chain of thought (no doubt intentionally) with a deep, probing kiss.

“Okay,” he says when we separate. “You wanna blow me?”

He takes one of my hands and places it between his legs, covering it with his own. He’s even harder now than he was when we were dancing. I look around. A couple of the guys are watching us. It kind of creeps me out a bit.

I whisper in his ear. “Are people going to . . . you know?”

He arches an eyebrow, giving me a genuinely questioning look.

“Are people going to do what?” he asks.

“Are they going to, like, jerk off or something?”

Brian looks around, smiling now and then when he catches someone’s eyes.

“If we’re doing it right, yeah, definitely.”

“Doing it right?”

“Sunshine,” he says, backing up until he encounters a wall and then pulling me to him with a finger hooked in one of my belt loops. “You’re thinking too much. Now, I told you I have a surprise for you. Aren’t you curious?”

I nod, but not terribly vigorously. I’m already feeling vulnerable here. I don’t want anything to startle me.

He must see my trepidation because he kisses me again.

“I promise you’ll like it,” he says against my mouth.

“It doesn’t involve anyone else, does it?” I ask.

“Nope,” he replies. “Most definitely not. It’s for you and you only.”

I nod again, this time more vigorously.

He smiles at me and opens his fly, pushing his jeans and underwear down until his dick is free. When he places his hand on the top of my head, applying just enough pressure to let me know what he wants me to do, I get to my knees in front of him and bury my face in his pubic hair, breathing in the scent of him.

This is one of those things – one of those epiphanies I’ve been having since I met him. Pubic hair smells really good. Well, at least his does. I haven’t had a chance (or wanted to have a chance) to smell anyone else’s, but I can’t imagine it could possibly smell better than his. I also love the feel of pubic hair and the way it looks – coarse and pillowy and glossy.

I inhale deeply a couple more times before I turn my full attention to the hard-on that’s bopping me on the nose, leaving behind cooling drops of pre-come. I lick his shaft from root to head, pausing to wriggle the tip of my tongue in his slit. He groans when a guy standing nearby starts stroking himself. There’s the sound of a lubed hand pumping a dick. I’m too embarrassed to turn my head and look.

Honestly? I’m not sure how I feel about all of this. I’m feeling pretty awkward when I wrap my fingers around Brian’s dick and guide the head toward my mouth, but when he groans again and combs his fingers in my hair, I happily close my lips around the fever-hot skin. Fuck the guys watching us. This is still about him and me. This is still about us.

“God,” he says. “Fuck, that feels so good.”

“Going to give us a show tonight, Kinney?” a voice asks.

Brian laughs breathlessly.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “You can count on it. I haven’t shot a load all day.”

I hear footsteps approach. I squeeze my eyes shut and clutch Brian’s hips harder.

“You’re doing great,” he tells me, sensing my discomfort.

“Better than great,” another guy says. “Found yourself a gorgeous mouth there, Kinney.”

Brian hums with pleasure and something that sounds like pride.

Suddenly, I realize I’m going to be fine with the situation. Maybe even better than fine. I take Brian’s cock deeper and tentatively swallow. His fingers tighten in my hair. When I pull away until the head of his dick catches on my lips, I look up at him . . .

. . . and what I see is hands-down The Hottest Thing I have ever seen in my life.

His head is tipped back, his mouth open, his eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaving, and his nostrils flaring every time he takes a breath. He almost looks like he’s in pain. I’ve seen him look like this when it’s just him and me at home, but it’s not quite as dramatic. Suddenly, the light bulb comes on.

He’s putting on a show.

For some reason the realization blows my mind. Maybe because he looks hotter than ever, or maybe because I know he’s getting off on being watched, on being the center of sexual attention. It’s . . . it’s really perverted!

“Suck harder,” he groans.

I comply as best that I can, trying to massage the head of his cock with the back of my tongue like he’s been teaching me. To my horror, I gag. I brace myself for the sound of laughter. It doesn’t come. Instead, I hear several moans.

“God, Kinney,” someone says. “You lucky bastard. I’ve never had someone choke on my dick.”

Brian laughs breathlessly.

“What can I say? I’ve got a huge cock,” he says. “You’d gag on it, too, Thomas – that is if you ever had the privilege of sucking it.”

“If you’d ever give me the chance . . . uh, fuck. Gonna come . . .”

“So soon?” Brian teases.

“Can’t help it. Haven’t seen a hotter blow-job in fucking ages. C’mon, Kinney go to it.”

“Okay?” Brian asks me.

I nod, his dick still in my mouth.

“Alright. swallow my cock as deep as you can and start playing with my balls . . . Ah! . . . that’s right. Just like that.”

He starts moving, but not so fast or hard that I don’t have time to prepare for each thrust of his hips. I make as much room in my mouth and throat as I can, letting my lips do the work of providing the slippery friction.

“Jesus, you’re getting good at this,” he gasps. I feel a surge of pride. Being complimented by him is always a huge Big Deal, but being complimented in front of a roomful of guys feels like an even huger Big Deal.

His balls are so tight up against his body that I can tell he could have an orgasm right now if he let himself, but obviously he’s having too much fun, as are the guys around us. I do my best to pleasure him, gently massaging each ball individually between my fingers.

“Tell him to finger your hole,” a guy says. “I wanna watch you having your ass played with.”

Brian laughs. I expect him to tell the guy to go fuck himself – Brian has always seemed kind of . . . well, maybe not shy, exactly, but kind of weird about his asshole. But his response surprises me.

“You heard the gentleman, Justin,” he says.

I pull back far enough that I can look up at him. He’s looking down at me with a smile on his face.

“Do it,” he says. “Suck on your finger – get it nice and wet – and then stick it in my ass.”

I blink, and his smile spreads into a grin. He knows how much I’ve been wanting to touch him . . . there. I let his dick slip sloppily from my mouth and suck on my middle finger for a moment, covering it with the vicious spit from the back of my throat. My hand is shaking when I reach between his legs and press the pad of my finger against the tight pucker that is the entrance to his body . . . the entrance to his body! Holy mother of God! I’m going to put a part of my body inside his!

When I take him in my mouth again, he makes the most amazing sound ever, and his asshole pulses open wide enough that I can work my finger a little deeper.

“Like your surprise?” he gasps. “Bet you didn’t think you’d be doing this tonight?”

He’s right. I definitely did not think I’d be doing this tonight! I wasn’t convinced I’d ever get to do this any night! I can’t get enough of knowing I’m inside him. I try to push my finger deeper, but he stops me.

“Don’t need to do that,” he says breathlessly. “The rim is super sensitive. Just wiggle your finger a little bit. That’s right.”

“God, I never knew sex ed could be so fucking hot,” I hear a guy say.

The sound of jerking-off is all around me – how many people are watching us? Three? Five? Even more? It’s weird, but, yeah, it’s also kind of a turn-on. I can see the two of us – me and Brian – through their eyes. I can see Brian, his back arching away from the wall and his hair damp with sweat, and I can see me on my knees in front of him, his dick in my mouth, one hand grabbing his ass and the other between his legs. I pull back slightly so I can look up at him. He’s still got his eyes squeezed shut, but now he’s biting his lower lip. Is he trying to keep himself from coming? As I watch, he undoes a few buttons and slides his hand inside his shirt so he can play with his nipples.

“C’mon, Kinney. Shoot your load,” one of the guys says. “I can’t hold back much longer.”

“Like . . . I’m . . . doing . . . this . . . for . . . you . . . guys,” Brian replies, every other word punctuated by a grunt. “I’ll come . . . when . . . I’m . . . ready.”

The guy chuckles. “You’re totally doing this for us, and you know it. Hey, kid,” he says. “I’ll tell you how to make Kinney blow a nut. Feel that ridge between his asshole and his balls? Press the heel of your palm against it.”

I almost laugh because the whole situation is kind of hilarious. Hilarious, but hot, too. I do what he says.

“Oh, fuck,” Brian groans. “Thomas, you asshole!”

The guy named “Thomas” laughs.

“See how long you can hold out now,” he says.

The answer soon becomes obvious – only for another few seconds.

Suddenly, in quick succession, Brian’s asshole pulses open and squeezes tightly closed around my finger several times as he groans with release, come flooding my mouth with its hot, metallic taste. For a second, I think I won’t be able to swallow it all, but then I do. All of it.

He’s shaking as he comes back down. After a few final sucks, I let his cock slip free of my lips and pull my finger out of his ass. When I stand up, he all but collapses into my arms.

“God, that was good,” he whispers, his breath moist and damp against my ear. “Good job, Sunshine. There’s not a member of our audience you didn’t make come when I did.”

I pull back and look at his flushed face. “It wasn’t me, it was you,” I say. “Brian, you should’ve seen your face while I was doing that to you.”

“Think my expression would look that hot if I was getting a mediocre blow job?” he says and then kisses me when I can’t hide my grin.

“It’s your turn now,” he says. “Aiden, c’mere.”

I grab his sleeve with alarm. He’s going to get one of the guys to blow me!

“I want it to be you,” I whisper urgently. “Please, Brian.”

Brian kisses me again, long and deep.

“I don’t blow anyone in the backroom,” he says.

I’m terribly disappointed and even a little angry that he’s ready to pawn me off onto someone else after what I’d just done for him.

He senses my distress.

“It’s not personal,” he says. “I haven’t blown a guy in public since . . . God, I can’t even remember when. We all have things we don’t want to do, and that’s one of mine,” he says. “But, listen, if you want to go home and have me blow you there, we can. I’ll just say, though, that you don’t know what you’d be missing. Not only is Aiden a cock-sucking pro, but you’ll get to watch me jerk-off.”

I arch both eyebrows. Brian jerk-off? In public? Jesus, that sounds hot as hell! Hot enough that I’m pretty sure I can get over my issues with having someone other than him suck my dick.

“I’m going to come really quick, you know,” I whisper.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “The guys won’t care. It’s obvious you’re jail bait.”

I laugh and punch his arm.

“So what’s the plan,” Aiden says, walking up to us. He looks at me. “Nice job.”

I blush. He’s completely naked. I look him over. He’s not as beautiful as Brian (duh!) but he’s pretty hot. He’d obviously just come because his dick is still mostly swollen.

“The plan is you’re going to suck Justin, here, off, while I kiss him,” Brian says.

I blink. This was getting better by the minute!

“Just don’t knock me in the head while you’re jerking off,” Aiden says amiably.

“Oh, yeah, and edge him, will you?”

I frown. Edge me? I don’t like the sound of that. It sounds like it might be painful – I mean, knife’s edge and all that.

“Uhm,” I say as Aiden backs me against a wall and gets down on his knees. “Edge me?”

“It means he’s going to keep you on the edge of orgasm for as long as possible,” Brian says. “And, believe me, he’s an edging expert. He edged me for almost an hour once. I was ready to go to jail for murder by the time he let me come.”

Looking up at me with smiling, dark brown eyes, Aiden slowly unzips my fly as Brian positions himself behind him so that he can kiss me. I can see that he still has his dick out and that it’s getting hard again.

“I feel like a cock-sucker sandwich,” Aiden says, and the guys standing around chuckle.

I was right about not lasting long. By the time Aiden gets my dick in his mouth and Brian gets his tongue in mine, I’m pretty much a goner. I’m at a loss as to what to do. The whole thing’s just started . . . . but then all of a sudden, just as my balls start to tingle and my thigh and stomach muscles clench, Aiden abruptly stops sucking my dick and starts fondling my balls.

“Fuck!” I exclaim into Brian’s kiss.

The bastard laughs. As do all his bastard buddies.

“Welcome to the wonderful world of edging,” Brian says. “It’s a real art. I’ll teach it to you someday. A good edger is worth his weight in gold. You’ll never not be able to land a trick if you’re a good edger, right Aiden?”

“I certainly haven’t had any trouble,” Aiden agrees. “One of my tricks was even you, Kinney.”

Oh my God! It is SO weird realizing that Brian is a “trick” to his tricks!

“You’ve got to get really good at reading every stage of orgasm,” Brian continues because he’s clearly on the lecture circuit tonight. “There’s a fraction of a second between the first contraction and the second when, if you remove direct stimulation of the cock, you can prevent ejaculation.”

I start to lose track of how many times Aiden brings me to the edge of orgasm only to back-off at the last, final fraction of a second. Meanwhile, Brian keeps on kissing me, and I kiss him back as well as I can, but it’s not easy. My whole, entire world is centered around my dick. In fact, nothing exists except my dick. In the beginning God created my dick. “Let there be Justin’s dick!” God said, and, yay, Justin’s dick came into being. Fuck light. Fuck heaven and earth. My dick was God’s first creation and it will still exist after the Apocalypse . . . .

“Uh!” I grunt as my tormenter pulls back again. I hate him. No, I love him. No, I hate him. No, I . . .

“Alright, Aiden,” Brian finally says. “I’m ready to come. You can stop torturing the poor lad.”

Oh. Thank. You. Merciful. God!

Aiden pulls off again one last time because Aiden is evil. Since I’m getting all Biblical about all of this, I’ll even conjecture that Aiden is either Satan, himself, or one of his minions released from Hell to torment me.

“You wanna come first?” Aiden asks Brian. “Or do you want him to?”

Brian thinks. He actually fucking thinks. I look down. He’s got his fingers wrapped around his cock, which is slimy with pre-come and so dark with blood that it looks like it might pop. He has to be as close to coming as I am, but yet he’s thinking!!

What is wrong with these people??

“Make Justin come, and I’ll follow,” Brian says as though he’s discussing a client contract or something.

“Gotcha, boss,” Aiden says cheerfully and then looks up at me.

“Ready for this?” he asks.

“Am I ready?” I say incredulously. “I’ve been ready for this fucking orgasm since the day I was born!”

Aiden and Brian chuckle.

Bastards!

“Actually, I’m not sure you are,” Aiden replies. “I’m about to blow your mind, kid. I hope you don’t have anything else planned for the evening because this orgasm is going to finish you off in more ways than one.”

Brian laughs.

“Enough preamble,” he says. “Suck his balls dry.”

I’m about to say something about maybe leaving a little something left in my balls, because is sucking them dry really advisable? I haven’t had a chance to look it up on the internet . . . but suddenly Aiden brings me to the edge of orgasm again for the billionth time and then . . . . pushes me right the fuck over.

I come SO FUCKING HARD that I forget to watch Brian make himself come. Hell, I forget my own name and social security number. I even forget how to breathe. It’s really fucking embarrassing, but I swear that I lose consciousness for a second.

“Hey,” Brian says, holding me under the armpits as I slide like an over-boiled noodle down the wall. “Don’t sit on the floor. It’s disgusting. Here, come with me.” His voice seems to be coming from a great distance through a thick fog.

When I show no sign of re-growing my bones, he literally picks me up piggyback style. I hear the guys laugh. I couldn’t give less of a shit.

“Thanks, Aiden,” Brian says chummily.

“Anytime,” Aiden calls back. “I’ll see you at Woody’s later if you can revive him.”

Brian laughs and says something that sounds like “I’m not counting on it.”

I’m only vaguely aware that Brian is heading for a door and then shoving it open with his hip. The night is clear and cold, and the air feels good against my flaming cheeks.

“Good thing you can stay with me and I don’t have to take you back to Deb’s in this condition,” he says. “She’ll think you got hit by a bus and blame me for pushing you into the street.”

He walks to the Jeep, opens the door and maneuvers me into the passenger’s seat. I let my head fall back as he buckles the seatbelt.

“So,” he says, when he gets in the driver’s seat and closes the door. “Have fun tonight?”

I can only nod. He chuckles fondly and leans over to kiss me.

“Good,” he says. “I’m glad.”

I smile wobbily. I’ve decided I like the backroom. I’ve decided I like people watching me blow Brian. I’ve decided I like edging. I’ve decided I like fingering assholes. And I’ve definitely decided I like blacking-out from an orgasm.

All sorts of decisions got made tonight, and it’s only one in the morning!

Maybe Brian can help me make a few more before the sun comes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've often heard people say that they don't understand Brian's seeming obsession with having sex in public. I've even heard people suggest that, like tricking, it's something he "grew out of" thanks to Justin's presence in his life. I see things very differently. Brian enjoys backrooms and bathhouses because he likes to watch and be seen. It's not a sign of immaturity; it's just something that he obviously enjoys and - like all things sexual - wants to share with Justin.


	3. Figging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian teaches Justin the art of figging.

I didn’t think Brian liked to cook. After all, in the several months I’ve known him, Brian hasn’t cooked a single thing. Sure, he makes lots of protein shakes and sandwiches (some of them with very bizarre combinations – hello, who eats peanut butter with avocados?) but I’m not sure Brian even knows how to use the stove-top burners let alone the oven. So I’m rather surprised and confused when I walk through the door and find Brian peeling a ginger root.

Holy shit! I think. Is Brian making a stir-fry? Sushi? No, definitely not sushi. I have a feeling he wouldn’t come within ten feet of raw fish. I’m not quite sure why I think that, but I’m nonetheless convinced it's true.

“Ah, Sunshine,” he says, sounding pleased. “Just in time.”

I narrow my eyes. Just in time for what? He probably wants me to take things from there. Apparently peeling one root of ginger is the extent to which he’s willing to go to make a meal. Now it’ll be up to me to do everything else. Lazy bastard.

“Now, now, why the suspicious look?” he says. “You claim I haven’t taught you everything I know about fucking. Well, let’s remedy the situation. Go to the bedroom and strip. I’ll be right there.”

“Are we going to have a naked food fight?” I ask excitedly. “Because if we are, I’d prefer whipped cream and strawberries over stir-fry.”

He gives me a bored expression. “Do you really need a lesson in food fucking? It’s not rocket science. Squirt some custard up your ass, and voila! You’re a cream puff.”

“Gross,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t knock it before you’ve tried it. Dribble some chocolate sauce down your crack and make it a chocolate éclair. Or use vanilla ice cream, and you’re a profiterole. Yum yum.”

He’s totally high. It’s the only explanation. Either that or he’s got a mad sugar craving.

“So, if we’re not going to cover ourselves in food, what’s with the ginger?” I ask, dropping my backpack on the floor.

He holds up the peeled root and admires it as though it’s the Hope Diamond, turning it about and scrutinizing it closely.

“Perfect,” he exclaims. “Now why aren't you already naked and on the bed?”

I’m suddenly a bit . . . anxious. There aren’t a lot of things one can do with a root vegetable, right? Right?

I climb the stairs slowly and take off my uniform, taking the time to fold it neatly. Yes, it’s true. I’m buying time. While I do it, Brian climbs the stairs ginger root in hand with a smile that can only be described as wicked. He places it on the bedside table, then pulls off his t-shirt and strips off his jeans. No underwear, of course. His cock is already hard. He’s definitely planning something, but what? He crawls onto the bed like a panther – intent and deadly – his eyes locked on mine.

“Lie back,” he says. “And spread your legs.”

I do as he says, and he positions himself between my thighs, lying on his stomach, his face level with my dick, which, despite my trepidation, is stiff and twitching. He licks a long, slow stripe from the base to the tip, his eyes never leaving mine.

“What we’re about to do, Mr. Taylor, is an activity called ‘figging,’ and don’t ask me why it’s called that because we’re not going to use a fig, we’re going to use this.” He reaches for the ginger and holds it up so I don’t have to lift my head off the pillow to see its pale flesh, blue in the bedroom light.

“Uhm,” I say. “How . . . ?” Honestly, I’m perplexed. The root is smaller than Brian’s dick and much smaller than the dildo he introduced me to last week.

“Patience, young grasshopper, patience,” he says. “First, we need to get you to relax. Remember what I told you about closing your eyes and concentrating on your breath. In, out. Slow and steady. Don't tense your body. Don’t focus on your dick. Just breathe.”

This is familiar. We’ve been practicing how to delay coming for weeks. At first, I sucked at it, but I’m getting better. The reward makes it well worth the struggle. A delayed orgasm is a thousand times better than one that takes a mere minute or two. The slow build-up is mind-blowing, almost better than the orgasm itself. Needless to say, Brian is really good at holding back. At first, it freaked me out because I thought he wasn’t coming quickly because I sucked at giving blowjobs, but he assured me that wasn’t the case. In fact, he’d told me he was actually pretty impressed with my fumbling attempts. Innate instinct, he’d called it. Sunshine, you were born to suck cock. Anyway, after I got over being freaked out, I realized he was holding back. Sometimes he held back for so long my jaw started aching in which case he backed me off and finished himself with long, slow strokes that gradually grew faster until his hand froze and he came all over his stomach with a beatific moan.

How long can you do that? I’d asked in awe the first time.

As long as I want, he’d replied. I’m in complete control.

I find it hard to imagine what that’s like. I can only control myself for a couple of minutes. He’s able to control himself indefinitely. Given how hot it obviously gets him, I’m super jealous. But he always assures me I’ll be as good at it as he is some day . . . as long as I keep practicing, which, quite honestly, is not exactly a hardship.

My mind returns to the here and now. He’s altering the pressure of his tongue from firm strokes to barely touching. I squeeze my eyes shut. One inhale, one exhale, one inhale, one exhale. He’s purposely avoiding the tip of my dick because he knows I’ll come immediately if he starts sucking on it. I’m sweating, the beads prickling at my hairline. My hands clutch the sheet beneath me.

I’m close and he knows it when he tells me to take a deep, deep breath and hold it. I follow his instruction and fill my lungs with as much air as possible . . .

. . . which quickly escapes with a yelp as something cool and stinging enters my ass.

“Ow ow OW!” I screech! “OOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!”

He snorts with amusement and then quickly swallows my dick, taking all of it down his throat and sucking loudly. I usually revel in the filthy sounds he makes, but not now. My ass is burning like a motherfucker. I can't concentrate on anything else.

“Brian!” I squeak.

His only response is to take me deeper, swallowing around the tip of my dick, his throat slick with viscous saliva. I whimper, caught between intense pleasure and searing discomfort. Not pain, exactly, but definitely discomfort. Almost pain. A stinging inside me making me fully aware of every nerve down there. My ass squeezes reflexively and the sensation intensifies. I can't stay still; there's just way too much of everything. I squirm and buck. He takes it all. The man simply does not have a gag reflex. I grab his hair and tug - it's not something I'd ever do in any other situation, but I can't help it. I can't help any of the moves I'm making, writhing, burning with sensation, balanced on the edge tears. I shift my focus to my dick and then to the slow, very slow tightening of my stomach muscles, the tingling heaviness in my balls that grows and grows and grows until it overwhelms the sting . . .

. . . and I come with an agonized sob because, shit! I’ve never felt anything like this before. Never even imagined it. Sure I’d imagined a dick up my ass and could guess what it would feel like, but this . . . this is something new altogether. Something amazing and scary. Can someone pass-out from figging? What about actually die?

Before I can catch my breath, he pulls the ginger out of my ass and replaces it with his finger. He’s still swallowing around my cock, and the intensity of the experience is slowly receding, receding, receding . . . and then it's gone. But not the memory. It remains technicolor vivid -as intense as the sensation itself had been.

“Jesus. Fuck,” I rasp when he pulls his mouth off my dick and lifts his head to grin evilly at me. Quickly, he sits up and rolls me over. I hear him open the drawer of his bedside table, and then he hauls my hips off the mattress. He’s using that cooling lube he has when he glides into my ass, and it feels amazing. Refreshing, actually. Like sucking on a mint . . . or something like that. You know what I mean. I sigh into the pillow and relax, letting him fuck me the way he wants without pushing back. I can hear him breathing, shallow and fast. Shallower and faster than usual. I grin. I’m pretty sure I know where that ginger root is.

His thrusts quicken and deepen and each one is accompanied by a whimpered grunt. His fingertips dig painfully into the flesh of my hips. He’s not just fucking me now, he’s pounding me, but still he holds his orgasm back. How long can he take it? How long does he want to?

“Oh fuck,” he groans. “That fucking kills.” He laughs breathlessly. "God, I fucking love this."

I laugh. He’s so weird. He grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back.

“Fuck,” he says again. “Okay, that’s it.”

He thrusts hard one last time and freezes chanting a litany of “fuck fuck fuck fuck” as he comes. Then he pulls out abruptly, and I roll onto my back. He reaches behind him to pull the ginger out of his ass. He holds it up and glares at it.

“Little fucker,” he says.

I laugh, and he looks at me with a big shit-eating grin.

“So,” he says. “That’s figging. I hope you got the hang of it because there will be an exam . . .”

“Not now!” I squeak in alarm, and he laughs.

“No, even I am not that cruel,” he says. “Besides, my asshole is a friggin’ ring of fire. It would take a butt plug the size of a fire hydrant for me to feel anything back there. Get up and get me an ice cube, will you? And hurry up. Chop chop. Jesus fucking Christ that burns.”

I go to the fridge, all the way feeling intensely aware of my asshole. I’ll probably be aware of it for hours . . . days maybe. Little fucker, indeed. I crack an ice cube out of the tray and return to the bedroom. As soon as I hand it to him, he reaches around and presses it against his asshole with a grateful sigh. It sounds like he’s just dived into a cool pool during the heart of a heatwave.

“Now that,” he says. “Was kinky. Not the kinkiest thing in the world, mind you, but definitely not mainstream. The only thing that's kinkier would be if we cut off a sliver and put it in our dicks. But that really hurts. As in S and M shit.”

I cringe. To be honest, the prospect doesn't even sound fun. I’m not sure whether I actually want it, but I ask him anyway.

“When are you going to teach me the other kinky stuff?” I’m both wildly excited and rather nervous about the prospect. After all, our activities have been progressing in a pretty straight line of what-the-fuckness. It’s hard to imagine what might be left to try.

He looks at me. There’s water tricking down between his legs from the melting ice cube. I long to lick it up. He looks like he’s weighing the pros and cons of something.

“We’ll see,” he replies. “It’s pretty advanced stuff.”

I puff out my chest and try to look tough. “I trust you,” I said.

He quickly looks away. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“I know,” he says. “That’s not the question. The question is whether I do.”

He reaches out to me and pulls me close. We’re on our knees. He traces my lips with what’s left of the ice cube, his eyes never leaving mine.

“But we’ll find out,” he whispers and then kisses me before I can reply.


	4. Fisting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian teaches Justin the art of handballing.

FISTING

“A little knowledge is a dangerous fucking thing, Sunshine,” Brian says, and Emmett readily agrees.

“Honey, you gotta try fishin' for minnows before you go after catfish.”

Catfish? “Why are catfish such bad asses? I thought they lived in mud and were big and kinda dumb.”

“You naïve north-easterners. The little ones can swim up your fella and set up house in your bladder . . .”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Brian drawls from the couch where he's been crashed-out since we arrived. “That’s just a myth, Honeycutt.”

“Wanna test it? I thought not. And don’t call me ‘Honeycutt.”

“Okay, Honeycutt.”

Brian’s being an asshole because he’s sober at nine-thirty on a Saturday night . . . well, I mean even more of an asshole than usual. He’s refusing to discuss fisting. I’m only curious; it’s not like I’m going to go running off to Shop ‘n Save to buy a vat of Crisco.

“So, have either of you ever done it?” I ask conversationally from my perch on one of the barstools.

They just look at me.

“Tricycles before bicycles,” Brian says. “Your mom already hates me enough as it is. I’m not handballing your jailbait ass.”

I sigh wearily. “I’m not asking you to. I was just wondering if you’d ever had it done to you.”

Emmett cracks up laughing. “Brian a shish kabob? Now this I have to hear.”

Brian gives him a "Duh?" look. “If you’re gonna do it to someone else, you’ve got to have had it done to you first. Same as everything. Good topping practice, and as we know, I’m the best top there is. I’ll go toe-to-toe with anyone.”

“Don’t you mean ‘dick-to-dick’?” I ask. He just does that annoying barked-laugh thing he does when he’s hungry or hung-over . . . or sober on a Babylon night. Forget the Crisco, I might run to the liquor store and test out my new fake I.D. so I can replenish his stock of booze. He’s being a real kill-joy.

Emmett looks interested. “Really? You did your time as a bottom? Do tell.”

Brian gives him the ‘yeah, that’ll happen’ expression. “Don’t tell me a connoisseur like you doesn’t hand out a fucking questionnaire to your potential tops before you let ‘em go to it?”

I picture Emmett handing a clipboard and pen to a trick like a nurse hands you paperwork to fill out in a waiting room. It’s a pretty funny thought, and I giggle. Brian frowns at me behind Emmett’s back. He hates it when I giggle; it must remind him that I’ve only recently been relieved of my virginity. Believe it or not, he does have a modicum of shame – albeit a very small modicum that is easily overcome.

“Uhm, no, actually,” Emmett replies. “But apparently I should.”

Brian turns to me and says in his teachery voice that I should never ever let a novice stick his hand – or anything else – up my ass. Like I said: Mr. Kill-joy.

“What? Do people carry around references and papers certifying they’ve passed Fisting 101?” I ask.

Emmett laughs, and Brian rolls his eyes. “Ha ha. No, but there’re ways you can tell if a top knows his shit. For instance, if he doesn’t have a rubber glove on him, run for the door.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Sounds like surgery,” I say.

Emmett nods. “Yeah, it kinda is.”

“Sounds like fun,” I reply with a heaping scoop of sarcasm on the side.

“You’re starting to depress me, Honeycutt,” Brian says, ignoring Emmett’s middle finger. “Fisting shouldn’t seem like a medical experiment. It’s the closest I get to anything spiritual, giving or receiving.”

I’m going to make a crack about the body of Christ and turning wine into lube but stop myself when I remember Emmett is still a bit of a Baptist and Brian was raised a Catholic. I don’t know the extent of eithers’ irreverence when it comes to religion, and if there’s one thing a good WASP knows, it’s to steer clear of discussions of religion and politics at all costs.

“So do you burn incense and chant in Latin? Now that I would love to see,” says Emmett. “Brian Kinney, the High Priest of Handballing.”

Brian laughs the first real laugh I’ve heard this evening. He’d had to work all day on a “boring as shit” project, and working on Saturdays is up there on the list of his favorite things with having to spend time with Mel.

“I like that,” he says. “But it’s been a while. Not that I’ve lost my expertise! But I haven’t been with a trick who’s asked for it since, I don’t know, maybe a year ago or so.”

“Do they tip you if you do a particularly good job?” Emmett asks with genuine seriousness. “Because I haven’t been tipping. What would it be? Same rate as a hairdresser or are we talking wait staff? I usually tip 20 percent for wait staff . . . well, only if Teddy’s there to lend me the money.”

Brian laughs again. It’s a sign that my evening might go as well as I’d hoped it would (and feared that it wouldn’t). I grin and swivel around on my barstool.

“No, no one’s tipped me. But I do demand a blow job. A nice, good long one with lots of deep throat.”

“No problem then,” Emmett says. “Cock sucking is always a given when it comes to me.”

I turn my head side to side as though I'm watching a tennis match as they continue discussing the art of fellatio. I don’t mind hearing details of Brian’s exploits, but I guess I’d rather not hear about Emmett’s. It’s kind of weird, like listening to Daphne talk about making out with what’s his name. Some things you’d just rather not know.

“But back to you, Brian,” Emmett says. “How old were you?”

“I told you I’m not discussing it,” Brian replies. Emmett looks at me and gives me a conspiratorial wink when Brian leaves to use the bathroom.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve tried this before, and it works.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but by the time Brian returns, Emmett has “discovered” some E in his pocket. There’s not a lot, and it’s obvious that it’d been intended for his own personal use, but apparently the situation warranted offering it to Brian, who predictably leapt on said offer.

It was only a matter of time before Brian was reminiscing about Phillip “the Fist,” the handballing guru at Adonis.

“That was back in the day before the place turned into a shithole,” he says, smiling wistfully at the tender memory. “Jesus, he was fucking huge. Hands like frying pans. Getting fisted by him was no starter package. But he was really good, really gentle. Made me fucking cry . . .”

I cringe. “I can imagine. I bet it hurt like hell.”

Brian looks at me, his eyes still gauzy with nostalgia. “Course it hurts,” he says. “But that’s not what makes you cry. It’s the release it gives you. Like acupuncture. Your body’s natural painkillers kick in, and they make you higher than any drug can.”

I look at Emmett, and he’s nodding vigorously. “It relaxes you like nothing else.”

My ass clenches up at the mere thought of it, and I raise my eyebrows skeptically. Brian shrugs.

“It’s true. Believe it or not. I think I saw God the second time I tried it. He looked a lot like Nicholas Cage. It was weird.”

Emmett guffaws, and the solemn mood is broken.

“Time for Babylon,” Brian says and pulls me to my feet. “By the way, either of you tell anyone what I said and you’ll wish heartily that you hadn’t.”

Emmett and I make zipping motions with our fingers against our mouths. Brian throws his arms over both of our shoulders. “The nighttime calls, boys,” he says and escorts us through the door.

 

We’re both high, and the crowd is buoyant with pre-holiday giddiness. The dance floor is so jammed we have to dance glued together. Not that I mind, of course. Brian's body is hot as it moves against mine. I’m not going to pass out or anything, but the room is spinning pleasantly, and my inhibitions have packed their bags and flown to my grandmother’s house in Fairfield, Connecticut a day early.

“I want you to,” I say against Brian’s mouth.

“What? Buy you a Pepsi?” He laughs at his joke. The bartender had refused to serve me tonight; clearly my new I.D. is for shit. It was highly irritating. And Brian hadn’t intervened. I think he thinks I’ve had enough intoxicating substances for the evening. Damn him. He’s like a really perverted babysitter.

“No. Fist me,” I reply.

He pulls back and places his hands on my shoulders like a stern, but indulgent, parental figure.

“Hell no,” he replies.

I pout with genuine frustration and disappointment. “But I trust you,” I say. “I don’t know if I could ever trust anyone else.”

“Good,” he says, pulling me closer again. “I’ll kill the guy who sticks his lousy hand up your ass.”

I rise on tiptoes so I can kiss his lips. He’s looking at something (or nothing) in the middle distance, as usual refusing to own his bizarrely affectionate words.

“But why won’t you?” I’m worried I’m whining like Michael, but I want this. I really do . . . At least I think I do. Plus, I've noticed Michael's whining usually works on Brian.

“Why won’t I handball you?” Brian asks. “Let me count the reasons: (a) you’re too young . . .”

I interrupt him. “How old were you when that Phillip guy did it to you?”

Brian had been looking at me, but his gaze returns to the middle distance. “That’s immaterial,” he replies.

I laugh. “You were seventeen, weren’t you? Huh? Admit it! You were 'jailbait.'”

“Eighteen,” Brian snapped. “I was eighteen. Still older than you are.”

“By a couple of months.”

“By long enough. Besides I was used to having things stuck up my ass by then. You would be too if you’d started as soon as your balls dropped.”

Jesus Christ. He is unbelievable. He must’ve been some kind of butt-fucking prodigy. I want to giggle nervously, but it’s actually kind of sad for some reason, and he isn’t smiling.

“Your cute little ass is as tight as a keyhole,” he elaborates. “No matter how careful I was, I’d probably injure you. So there’s no way. Deal with it.”

“Well, then can I at least watch you do it to someone else? Can’t you find someone in the backroom we could take home?”

He pulls away and puts his hands on my shoulders again. “No one but a complete fucking dick wad would handball in the backroom of a club, and I don’t do it at home. It’s too weird. And I definitely don’t do it when I’m high. Sober at the baths with plenty of time to spare or not at all.”

“Okay,” I say, looking up at him with the same irresistible, pleading expression I give my mom when I want her to take me to Nike Town. “So we can’t do it tonight. What about some other time?”

Brian looks at me for a long time before he answers. “If I say yes, will you stop talking about it?”

I cross my heart. “I promise.”

He just nods. “I’ll think about it,” he says. “But it’ll have to be with someone I already know – someone who already trusts me, and you might not like it. He’s . . . well, he’s the closest anyone’s ever come to being a sought-after fuck.”

I swallow. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I won’t be able to handle it.

“Think about it long and hard,” he says and punctuates his seriousness by not making a pun.

 

A couple of weeks pass until, in true Justin Taylor form, my curiosity eventually outweighs my reservations, and after more dogged nagging, Brian finally relents.

“Just tell me who he is first,” I say.

“A guy I met in college,” he replies vaguely. “My age. Ph.D. and that’s all you need to know.”

I nod. “Is he good looking?”

Brian answers my question with a raised eyebrow that clearly asks if I really think he’d ever hook up with a guy who wasn’t good looking.

“How good looking?” I ask.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he replies. “Because it doesn’t sound like it.”

I take a deep breath. “Yeah,” I say. “I want to do this. Where are we going?”

“The baths. I’ll ask him which one he’d prefer. Always let the fistee choose the surroundings.”

I pretend to pull a pen from behind my ear and jot down his words on an invisible notepad. He rolls his eyes.

“You’re such a twat,” he tells me in a tone that sounds like fondness.

 

It turns out Mr. Ph.D. wants to go to some fancy-schmancy bathhouse Brian’s never taken me to before.

“It’s expensive and requires a membership,” Brian explains. “I have one but it’s probably out of date. He’s been going there for years though; I’m sure he can get us in on guest passes.”

“Guest passes?” I say. “It sounds like a gym.”

“And looks like one too. There’s a pool and saunas and shit. And the rooms actually get cleaned on a daily basis. It’s nice, but I like my fucking dirty and poorly lit. Bonus points if there’s florescent lighting and I can see come on the walls.”

I shudder. Ew. For someone whose maid comes twice a week, Brian can be really gross sometimes.

 

When we arrive, our names are already in the computer, and the guy at the front desk with an orchid on it gives us towels and waves us through with the same blandly pleasant smile ticket takers give you at the theater. We walk down a hall with a slate floor and gleaming white tiles on the walls.

“Shower first,” Brian says when we enter the luxurious locker room.

We strip and put our stuff in two of the lockers. Brian’s dick is already at half-mast, and it hardens into a full-on boner as he kisses me under one of the shower heads. He takes my hand and guides it down to wrap my fingers around it.

“Jerk me off,” he whispers huskily against my ear, shoving his pelvis forward as my hand slides down his rigid shaft.

I frown up at him questioningly. “Don’t you want to be hard for this?”

He shakes his head and then kisses me again. “This isn’t about me,” he says cryptically.

I slick my hand with the soap from the dispenser hanging on the wall. Brian rests his chin on top of my head as I start stroking him. I know he’s watching the other guys in the room all of whom are sporting their own boners. A few start stroking themselves in time with my motions, their eyes fixed on my hand.

“That’s it,” Brian groans as I loosely twist my fingers around the head of his cock as though it’s a bottle cap I’m trying to open. “A little tighter. That’s right. Ah . . .”

His cock is the most stunning cock I’ve ever seen, and before you roll your eyes and ask how many cocks I’ve seen to compare his with, I’ll assure you that I’ve been watching a lot of porn since I met Brian. In fact we watch it together. None of the actors’ dicks can hold a candle to Brian’s – not necessarily because his is bigger (after all we’re talking porn stars here) – but it’s more beautiful. Straight with a clearly defined head that gets purple when he’s really hard. The veins are pronounced but not in a gross kind of way, and once his cock is stiff, it never softens until after he’s come – at least never in my presence - and sometimes not even then.

I stand on my toes and whisper in his ear, asking him whether it's okay if I go down on him. He chuckles with amusement at me feeling like I need ask and answers by placing both hands on my shoulders, pushing me to my knees. When I take his cock in my mouth, I hear one of the guys come with a long, pained-sounding groan.

“Found yourself one gorgeous mouth there,” a guy says from behind me, and I bristle slightly as I picture myself as nothing but a giant pair of lips walking around on spindly, knock-kneed legs.

“Hey,” Brian replies, his voice casual and friendly. “This is Justin. I’m sure he’d introduce himself, but he’s kind of busy right now.”

The guy laughs good-naturedly. “I’m going to meet you in the room,” he says. “If I watch the two of you much longer, I’m going to blow a nut. Give me about fifteen minutes.”

“The room’s got a sling, I hope,” Brian replies. “And a leather one. I hate those cheap pleather ones. They get all slimy.”

“Always the snob,” the guy says fondly. “Later.”

Brian would’ve probably replied in kind except I choose that precise moment to shallow his cock, and all that escapes his mouth is a strangled groan as he shoots down my throat. “Later” is my fucking word.

When I look up, Brian is smirking at me. “You’re jealous,” he says. “And what's more, it turns out jealousy improves your already acceptable cock-sucking skills. Note to self.”

Great. Just what I need. More jealousy.

“Fuck you,” I say. He helps me to my feet and puts his arm around me, pulling me close for a long, deep kiss as he reaches down with the other and wraps his fingers around my dick.

 

When Brian told me we’d be there a while, I’d imagined forty-five minutes or an hour at most. Boy, was I wrong. The whole thing, from preparation to clean-up, took more than two hours! The whole time the room was eerily quiet (considering it's a bathhouse) except for Brian’s murmured encouragement and the guy’s deep but tattered breaths and occasional groans. Now and then, they conversed with each other, Brian asking how he’s doing, and the guy answering in (at least to my mind) shockingly personal terms.

Brian had brought with him a tight-fitting, elbow-length, black rubber glove with a yellow circle around it a little more than halfway up his forearm. “That marks how deep I'll go,” he explains to me in a hushed voice. “Too deep, and you can really hurt someone. The rectum’s stretchy, but it's only about five inches long with a six-inch circumference before it turns into the large colon after a curve that you can straighten to go deeper, but only very slowly. Some assholes try to force things, but that's not my style. This isn't some kind of competition.”

I’d expected to be turned on like crazy, but I didn’t even get chubby until Brian has his hand fully inserted and begins to fuck the guy with it. By that time, the guy’s own cock is hard and leaking. He starts moaning continuously, his eyes softly closed and his head rolling from side to side.

“Deeper?” Brian asks calmly, and the guy nods.

Brian still has his towel wrapped around his waist, but I can see the fabric's tented where his erection is pushing on it. There’s almost as much sweat on his face and chest as there is on the guy’s, but there’s no sign that Brian’s going to lose control. Not even the slightest hint. I’m seriously impressed. I reach inside my own towel and start touching myself.

“Don’t,” Brian whispers. “Too distracting.”

There’re a lot of icky squishy-squelchy sounds; to prepare the guy’s ass, Brian had used gobs of thick lubricant that looked like Crisco but wasn’t. The task took forever. I also notice the inside of the guy’s ass is bright pink. It’s scary looking, very much like I’d imagined intestines to look like and not in a good, sexy kind of way.

I must look a tad green because Brian asks if I “need some air.” I shake my head; I’d been the one who’d wanted this.

The guy is spreading his legs as wide as they can possibly go. His face is beet red, and he's blubbering like a baby. Sinews stand out starkly in his neck. Tears stream steadily from his eyes. But for his rigid cock, it’s impossible to know whether he’s experiencing pleasure or pain. Probably both. I find myself trying to imagine Brian in the guy’s place and can’t. There’s absolutely no dignity involved. It actually looks kinda like the guy is giving birth, especially when Brian starts to gradually remove his hand.

“God, I need to come,” the guy gasps as Brian’s knuckles catch on the rim of his hole.

Brian pauses. “Think about writing your dissertation,” he says with indulgent amusement. He turns to me. “Don’t let your bottom come while your hand is still inside him. Everything will tighten up afterward and make withdrawal unpleasant for him.”

I nod. I don’t tell him that the whole thing from start to finish looks unpleasant. But it’s by far the worst thing that's happened all evening when Brian asks me to meet him in the locker room.

When he joins me twenty minutes later, the guy isn’t with him, and Brian no longer has a hard-on. I have to go to a toilet stall because I start to cry. My emotions are suddenly all over the place. I can’t say that I wish I hadn’t witnessed this experience . . . but pretty damn close. I’m silent and upset the whole way back to the loft and just barely not shaking.

Brian parks the Jeep in his spot and turns to me. “Hey,” he says softly and turns my head to look at him.

I swallow, but the tears spring to my eyes anyway.

“Do you love him?” I ask in a voice that sounds to me very much like a child’s.

Brian shrugs. “I don’t think so.”

“Sure seemed like it,” I sniffle.

“It’s a pretty intense experience,” he replies. “Not many people share that kind of trust with anyone. It’s got to be fucking absolute.”

I wrench my chin out of his hand. I don’t really trust him, and we both know it. He’s deliberately hurt me too many times.

“I doubt I’ll ever have that with anyone,” I choke. “He’s lucky.”

Brian shrugs again. “I guess. To the extent anyone would be ‘lucky’ to ‘have’ me.”

I turn to him and give him as defiant a look as I can muster. “Well, he can’t have you. I want you. If you’re going to give yourself to anyone, it’s going to be me.”

I brace myself for one of his soul-blistering replies, but it doesn’t come. Instead he drops his head.

“I shouldn’t have done this,” he says, scrubbing his face with both hands. “I shouldn’t have let you see that. I know you’ll want me to do it to you now, and I won’t.”

I shove open the door, jump out of the Jeep and start running down the sidewalk. Brian catches up and grabs me from behind, holding me as I struggle to escape.

“Leave me alone!” I yell at him. He merely squeezes me tighter.

“Knock it off, you little shit,” he hisses in my ear. “And grow the fuck up while you’re at it. You need to trust me not to hurt you – physically and emotionally – before I’d ever do that with you. You’re a moron if you trust me, and I know you're not a moron. At least I think I do.”

I sag in his arms, exhausted – and, yes, traumatized.

“Why won’t you let me trust you?” I say around a half-sob.

“Because I’m not trustworthy,” he snaps, and there’s a long pause before he adds so quietly that it's like he doesn't mean for me to hear, “at least not when it comes to you.” He turns me around and pulls me into a hug, cradling the back of my head with the same hand he’d used to fist Mr. Fucking Ph.D.

I expect him to let me go after a second, but he keeps holding me tightly. The embrace goes on and on. And on.


	5. Food Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian teaches Justin the art of Salirophilia . . . well, sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Wikipedia and Deb who needs a cheer-me-up fic.

It’s nice that Brian’s getting some new hobbies.

Now don’t get me wrong – I love fucking, getting stoned and going to Babylon, but I also love to draw. A man cannot live on whiskey, weed and willies alone. So it’s nice to see him getting interested in growing plants (even if said plants turn out to be marijuana) although, personally, I’m rooting (get it? haha!) for tomatoes. I love fresh tomatoes. Eating the kind you buy in the supermarket is like eating a baseball. They have no flavor and they’re hard – and not in a good way like Brian’s dick is right now. I wanted to let him know I was happy for him and his new hobby, but he looked at me kinda funny yesterday when I mentioned that I wouldn’t mind an herb garden in addition to tomatoes. I don't know why he'd found my question so odd. I mean if he’s not getting into gardening, then why buy a giant bag of Roots Organic Soil?

And judging from the amount of Crisco and flour he bought, it looks like he's also getting into baking. And maybe even other kinds of culinary endeavors - like right now he's boiling the shit out of some egg noodles.

Dirt, Crisco, flour, over-cooked egg noodles.

“Hey, Sunshine,” he says, rubbing his dick through his Diesel jeans, the ones he wears around the loft because they’re not expensive enough to wear to Babylon. “Go out to the Jeep and bring in the Costco bags.”

The Costco bags? The Costco bags?? Don't you have to have a membership to shop at Costco? There is no fucking way that Brian has a membership to Costco.

“Had to buy in bulk,” he said, reading my mind like he always does.

I put on my coat and trudge down the stairs. He’s up to something. But what?

When I get to the Jeep, I can’t stop myself from looking in the bags – after all they weigh a fucking ton. I want to know what I’m being forced to lug around. It's only fair, right? Besides, he never said anything about not peeking.

Olive oil. Bird seed. Molasses. Fish food. Pampers . . . .

Pampers??

Oh, shit.

“No way,” I say as soon as I walk through the door.

He looks at me, oozing feigned innocence.

“‘No way’ what?”

“No way I’m wearing diapers.”

“You might change your tune . . .”

“I am not going to change my tune.”

He turns back to his pot of boiling noodles, singing a mutilated rendition of “I Will Survive.”

“At first I was afraid/I was petrified/Just thinking I could never live with Pampers on my hide . . .”

"'Pampers' has too many syllables,” I say. “Why fish food? Are we getting a fish tank? If so, I want it to be a salt water one.”

“'Pampers' does not have too many syllables, and ‘we' are not getting a fish tank.”

“Then what is . . . ?”

He interrupts my inquiry. “C’mere and check the noodles for me. I want them mushy.”

Mushy? The only thing grosser than mushy egg noodles is mushy lima beans. Ugh.

I walk to the kitchen where he hands me a fork. I pluck a noodle out of the pot and put it in my mouth.

“Ow! Hot! Hot! Hot!” I yell.

“Yes, I know I am," Brian says, sounding bored. "But what about the noodles? Are they cooked enough?”

“If you want them almost boiled to a pulp, then, yes, they are."

He smiles with satisfaction and turns off the burner; then he goes to the sink and pours the noodles into a strainer.

Now what? And, oh, yeah, did I mention ‘What the Fuck?’ He’s not actually making something to eat. He never makes anything to eat, especially if it requires using his stove.

He leaves the strainer in the sink and walks to the corner near the door and retrieves . . . .

Fuck.

A giant spool of plastic sheeting.

“Oh no,” I say.

“Oh, yes,” he replies as he shoves back the couch and unfurls the plastic sheet on the rug.

“So you’re going to put me in diapers and cover me with soggy noodles.”

“You’re almost right. Except you didn’t mention the potting soil, flour, Crisco, molasses, bird seed and . . . yes, fish food.”

“You . . . you’re going to? . . . What the fuck, Brian? This is really, really weird.”

“Of course, it’s weird. We’re working our way through my catalog of sexual perversions.”

“You mean the figging and snowballing weren’t the most deviant practices you can think of? What about the sounding? That was pretty crazy.”

“Sure,” he says, smoothing out the wrinkles in the plastic sheet. “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any more ‘weird’ practices out there.”

Great. Someone please remind me why I’m not with a kid my own age experimenting with blow jobs.

“This, this . . . what’s it called?”

“It’s called Salirophilia – with a little bit of Bukkake thrown in, but only if you’re particularly lucky and I’m feeling particularly generous.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Salirophilia is a paraphilia that involves deriving erotic pleasure from soiling or disheveling the object of one's desire.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wikipedia.”

“Who’s calling who ‘Mr. Wikipedia?’ Pot kettle, Sunshine. Stone, glass house.”

He’s mocking my addiction to internet encyclopedias. It’s not the first time. I glare at him, but my curiosity overwhelms my petulance.

“What’s a ‘paraphilia’?” I ask.

“It’s just a fancy word for a sexual fetish,” he replies. “Now take off your clothes and lay down on the plastic.”

I stand there, looking at him while mentally scrambling to think of a way to derail the oncoming paraphilic train.

“What’s ‘Bukkake’?”

“Why aren’t you getting undressed? I’m pretty sure you’re smart and agile enough to walk and chew gum at the same time,” he says. “Bukkake is when someone stands above you and jerks off until he comes all over you.”

Hhhhhmmmm. Now that turns me on. Fish food and bird seed? Not so much.

I strip off my clothes but much slower than usual. I have an issue with what’s about to happen and it’s not just the prospect of getting slathered in Crisco and then rolled in potting soil like a really gross, really bizarre human sugar cookie. The issue is . . . well, if I’m being honest with myself, the issue is that I already feel humiliated sometimes around Brian, and I don’t see the point in humiliating me any further. Yes, he’s tied me up and teased me until I was in begging for release – yes, that’d been humiliating – but this is different. This is . . . well, it's demeaning. The power dynamic between us is unequal as things are. I don’t want to make it even more unequal. I don’t want to be made to look like an idiot. I really don’t. Sorry, Brian. This time I’m putting my foot down.

“No,” I say and cross my arms.

His eyebrows arch with surprise. “No?”

“No,” I say again, even firmer than before.

“No, what?” he presses.

“No, I don’t want to do this.”

His look of surprise turns into a frown, but he’s not frowning at me. He’s frowning at the situation.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it right now,” he says. “But this is actually really hot. Hell, it makes me hard as fuck. I’m hard as fuck right now just thinking about it.”

He grabs my hand and guides it to his crotch where he presses his own hand on top of mine to make sure I feel him – how rock hard his cock is.

“It makes you hard to humiliate me,” I say. It isn’t a question.

He gives me a “duh” face. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course it does.”

I laugh and he glares at me. “You are such a pervert,” I say and give his dick a squeeze before tugging my hand free of his.

He gives me another “duh” face.

“Have you ever actually done this with someone?” I ask with genuine curiousity.

“Of course,” he says. “Many times. Like I said, it’s hot as hell.”

I walk over to him, wrap my arms around his neck and look him in the eyes. He doesn’t blink. He never does. But I know I have his full attention.

“Has anyone ever done it to you?” I ask. “Or have you only done it to them?”

He regards me for a lloonngg time.

“No,” he finally says. "No one has done it to me."

“I thought so.”

“Well my, aren’t you the smartest kid in the class."

“How about this,” I purr and am pleased when his pupils dilate with arousal. “How about I be the one to put you in Pampers and smear you all over with oil and potting soil and . . .”

Fuck. I’m starting to get hard.

He laughs.

“See,” he says gloatingly. “It does make you horny.”

I take a deep breath. I’m well aware I’m walking on thin sexual ice.

“Only when I think of doing it to you. The thought of you doing it to me is a total, complete, 100 percent turn-off.”

He puts his hands on my shoulders and steps out of my embrace. He’s looking closely at me again.

“You don’t know what you’d be missing.”

“I think I do, and I don’t care. I want you like crazy, Brian, but I am not a boy-toy you can do anything you want to in the name of ‘education.’”

He rolls his lips in. That’s it. I’m going to get kicked out and told to go back to Deb’s.

I'm surprised - and proud - when realize that I don’t care.

He’s still looking at me closely when he says “okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, you don’t have to do this.”

“Thank you,” I say with relief.

“At least not with Crisco and fish food.”

It’s my turn to glare at him. He’d promised me he’d never force me to do something I didn't want to do.

Without saying another word, he grabs his coat and walks to the door.

I’m furious beyond words.

“Brian,” I yell after him as he presses the elevator button. I run to the door. “You’re being . . . you’re being . . .” I stammer.

“What am I being?” He steps into the elevator and pulls the door shut.

“You’re being a big ba . . .”

He rolls his lips in again, and it’s not in an attempt to keep himself from smiling this time.

“A big baby?”

We have a brief staring contest, and then he’s gone.

Unsurprisingly, I feel like shit.

To distract myself, I dump the noodles down the garbage disposal and wash the dishes he’d left in the sink that morning. Bastard. Why is everything always my fault? I put the Crisco, molasses and olive oil in the cabinet and put the bird seed and potting soil in the corner. I’m in the process of rolling up the plastic sheet, when Brian walks in and slams the door closed.

He’s carrying more Costco bags.

“Hey,” he says. “What’re you doing? Don’t roll that up. We’re not done with it.”

For the first time since we met, I’m really and truly angry at him.

“What now?” I say. “Fertilizer? Dead cockroaches? Engine grease?”

I stop mid-tirade when he goes over to the plastic sheet, kneels on it and starts pulling huge containers of chocolate, marshmallow and strawberry sauce out of one of the bags. And then as my cock slowly swells and stiffens, I watch him pull out whipped cream, candy sprinkles and a banana.

Then, without saying a word, he stands, strips off his clothes, picks up the container of strawberry sauce and . . . .

. . . . pours it over his head.

All I can do is stare with my mouth open as the sweet, viscous liquid flows down his throat and onto his chest. I’m not only getting the hardest hard-on of my life, but my mouth is watering like I'm a little kid peering through the window of a candy store.

He bends over, picks up the container of chocolate sauce and pours it all over the plastic sheet.

Then he lies down.

“Well?” he says. He voice is harsh and demanding, but his moody temper is undermined by his impressive erection. “What are you waiting for?”

I strip my clothes off so fast that I almost tear a sleeve and trip over a pant leg, which, to my relief, makes him laugh. Who cares that it’s at my expense.

I go over to him and kneel down on the syrup-slicked plastic.

“Now what?” I ask, feeling somewhat at a loss.

“What do you mean ‘now what’?” he says. “Turn me into a banana split. I know you like sundaes considering how many you shove in your greedy maw whenever we go to the diner.”

“But . . .”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Get to it,” he says. “The offer is on the table for only so long.”

That’s all the urging I need – and then some!

I place both of my hands on him. His body is loose and languid as I roll him over a couple of times, mixing the strawberry with the chocolate. When he’s lying on his back again, I wipe his face clean with a wet cloth. I don’t want his beautiful features obscured even if the obscuring syrup is sweeter than an actual strawberry patch. But then I change my mind. I’ve thought of something that I’ll never be able to do again. I dip my finger in the chocolate sauce and carefully draw letters on his forehead.

Mine.

He narrows his eyes. He’s obviously suspicious, but I forestall any question with a deep, tongue-filled, chocolate-flavored kiss. He arches his back and closes his eyes with a moan.

I rise to my knees again so I can admire my handiwork. His chest is slick with chocolate syrup and his pubic hair matted with strawberry sauce. I retrieve the container of whipped cream, scoop out a generous amount and then comb my fingers through the mouth-watering mess. But I avoid his lurching cock. It’s too soon. Far too soon.

After my tongue empties his belly button of the candy sprinkles I’d filled it with, I straddle his thighs, still careful not to touch his cock. Each nipple hardens as I trace the areola with my finger, smearing it with gooey marshmallow. When I lick it off, I finish with a hard suck that draws blood to the surface of his skin. I like marshmallow. It would be a shame to leave some behind. I then soothe his bruised flesh with wet, messy, open-mouthed kisses as he cups the back of my head in his hand and urges me to suck some more.

He loves it when I play with his nipples. It makes him horny as hell, so I’m not surprised when he tries to reach around me and prepare me to be fucked, banana split or no banana split. But I’m not ready. Instead, I move so I’m kneeling between his spread legs. He bends his knees, and I grip the backs of his thighs, pushing them back until he’s open and the head of my dick is poking at his entrance.

Jesus Christ!! Is he going to let me fuck him?? I let go of one of his thighs and hold my dick steady. It would be so easy to . . . I push gently against the sweet (literally and figuratively!) puckered opening . . .

I shift my gaze from my cock to his face. He’s looking up at me, watching me closely. I can’t tell if his gaze is an invitation . . . or a warning.

With reluctance, I treat it as a warning.

I’m rough with disappointment when I roll him over and not in the mood for any of his bullshit when I get between his legs and shove them apart again. I’m only mollified when he doesn’t protest as I spread his ass cheeks.

My mouth waters and not just because I’ve squirted marshmallow in his ass, making it look like someone came inside him. His asshole doesn’t need syrups and sprinkles – it tastes good just on its own, sans sugar. I know this fact even though he’s only let me rim him, like, five times (not that I’m counting or anything) and only after a shower. But he doesn’t taste merely of soap; he also tastes . . . Fuck. Why am I trying to find a metaphor for how his ass tastes when I’ve currently got my tongue inside it? I pull back for a moment and watch it flex open and closed a few times in irritation at the interruption. Yes, you heard me. Irritation. Even his asshole gets irritated. It would be hilarious if it wasn't so incredibly adorable.

Rimming him . . . Jesus fucking Christ. Rimming him is like, well, sorry God, but it’s like a religious experience. Actually, no, I’m not sorry. God made this stunning body spread out before me. He made the sweet hole (again literal as well as figurative) I’m currently slobbering all over like a crazy street-corner preacher ranting about the End Times. My hands are sticky with sugar, which gives me a firm grip as I hold him open, pushing his buttocks up and spreading them apart with my thumbs at the same time, opening him up, revealing him, discovering him.

He’s moaning almost continually now. I lift my head to look at his face. He has it turned so all I can see is the right side, but it’s enough to see that his eyes are squeezed shut and his lips are parted – he’s too breathless to be able to breathe through his nose.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps. His words make my dick even harder than it already was, which is definitely saying something!

I go back to work, tracing the rim of his asshole with the tip on my tongue and then poking at its center when he raises his hips and pushes back. He wants me inside him. I can tell because I do the same things when I need him to fuck me. I’m wondering whether, at this point, he’d care if it was my tongue, my finger . . . or my dick.

God, if only I had the balls! I’d get to my knees, yank his hips up off the floor and plow into him. Isn’t he already humiliated enough with all the syrup and stuff? How difficult would it be for him to take it up the ass? Isn’t that the whole point of this Salirophilia shit – you make the person you besmirch your slave, if only until a shower rinses away the filth (or in this case the whipped cream and syrup)?

I decide to test my theory . . . even though I resort to subterfuge.

I know he loves having stuff in his ass – I’ve watched him fuck himself before and recently he’d let me do it to him. So, I know my plan has at least a teeny-tiny chance of success.

“Brian,” I say in my most gravelly, sexiest voice. “You told me I could make you into a banana split, right?”

I’m super thrilled when he answers my question with that beautiful sound that means shove-something-up-my-ass-or-so-help-me-God-I’m-going-to stop-writing-excuse-notes-for-your-homeroom-teacher-when-you’re-late-because-you-can’t-get-your-lazy-butt-out-of-bed-on-time-in-the-morning.

Well, as always, his wish is my command. I slick the banana with whipped cream and show it to him. My implication is clear, and he makes that sound again.

“Hurry . . . up and stick . . . it in,” he snaps when he finds sufficient breath to do so.

I take a deep breath and with a pounding heart, I press the tip of my dick against his loosened entrance . . .

. . . and plunge it in with a broken cry.

It’s . . . Uhm . . . Words, brain. Words. They’re sounds that mean something . . . oh fuck it . . .

“Justin . . . !”

Fuck. Busted.

I freeze. Brian’s body is tense, so very very tense.

I feel like crap.

“I . . . ,” I start to say, but what can I say? I’d just broken the great, great granddaddy of all unspoken rules between us.

Words won’t do, so I start pulling out, slowly so as to not alarm him any more than I already have. I wish my erection would go away, but it’s not even contemplating the possibility. It’d been inside him . . .

. . . Oh. My. Fucking. God! It’d been inside him! It’d been inside Brian! It’d fucked him for a couple thrusts! Fucked him! Brian! I just fucked Brian Kinney! I just fucked him raw!

My mind explodes so when he says “fuck it” under his breath and pushes his hips back, causing his body to sheathe my dick again to the root, it doesn’t compute. Only when he shouts at me to “just fucking do it, already!” that the reality of what is happening sinks in, and I start fucking him like fucking him is water and I'm dying of thirst.

Dear reader, I wish I could tell you that I fucked his brains out for an hour, making him come over and over until he was a quivering, whimpering blob. Hell, I wish I could tell you that I fucked him for longer than twenty seconds, but alas I would be lying. I came so quickly and hard that my nuts exploded . . . or at least, I thought they had. It sure felt that way. Bottom line (and yes, pun intended), it wasn’t him who turned into a quivering, sobbing blob. It was me.

You probably think I’m joking – or at the very least being hyperbolic, but I’m not. I really did cry. And why? Out of sheer, crushing, burning humiliation.

Fucking bastard. At the end of the day, he’d gotten what he’d set out to get even if it wasn’t by the means he’d planned.

He rolls over, positioning himself so I’m in the V of his spread legs, and wraps his thumb and forefinger around his cock so that it’s standing straight up from his delicious (literally) patch of pubic hair.

“Stop blubbering,” he gasps. “And suck my dick.”

Bastard! I think the word again, but when he immediately comes in my mouth, I get it.

He’d just “humiliated” himself, too. He’d made us equal . . . or at least as equal as we’d been before and probably ever will be.

“Fuck,” he moans, shaking all over. “God, I fucking hate that. Coming too soon is a fucking bitch. My dick didn’t even know what was happening before I shot my load.”

I rise to my knees and sit back on my heels with a sigh. Liar. He let himself come that soon. He could’ve staved off his orgasm indefinitely like he always does. I’m nothing but a charity case.

“Oh, shut up,” he says, reading my mind. “That wasn’t an act. I would’ve come from you fucking me in another second or three.”

I blink at him. He almost came on my cock? My mouth opens and closes a couple times. I must look like a guppy.

“Are you hungry? Should I get the fish food?” he asks as he stands and offers me his hand. When we’re face to face, he kisses me long and deep.

When he pulls back, he murmurs against my mouth, “Good job, Sunshine. I maybe, just maybe might let you do that again someday.” He steps back and I look up at his face . . . and then his forehead. It’s still there. The word.

Mine

It's true. That's what he is. Mine. Now more than ever.

I smile, lick my thumb and wipe it away.


	6. Fucking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian teaches Justin the art of fucking. This story takes place right before the "King of Babylon" episode.

FUCKING

“Think of it as like riding a horse,” Brian says.

I giggle. I know I shouldn’t because he’s Being. All. Serious. but I can’t help it. There is no way Brian's ever ridden a horse. I have, but only because I went to Camp Leavemethefuckaloneiamnotafag every summer.

“A horse? You’ve ridden a horse? When?”

He just looks at me. “If you don’t want to do this, I can think of at least a million and one things I’d rather be doing,” he says.

And he means it. He does not want to be doing this, and if he hadn’t lost at Scrabble, we wouldn’t be.

I smother another giggle. “No, I really want to do this,” I assure him. I arrange my face into an expression of solemn attention.

He glares at me and starts thrusting against the pillow again. “Okay, so the first thing you need to do is . . . Hey! Are you even listening?”

“Yes,” I say and then blush because I’m a shitty liar. He’s right; I wasn’t listening. I’m too mesmerized by the sight of muscles flexing in his ass. I’ve always been underneath him at this stage in the proceedings, so I’ve never seen the delicious dimpling of his cheeks. (His ass cheeks, I mean. His face cheeks don’t dimple, and if they did, he’d probably undergo cosmetic surgery to get rid of the offending cuteness).

“Justin,” he sighs as though the weight of the world is bearing down on his shoulders. “Are you going to pay attention or not? I’m not relishing humping my pillow here like a fucking teenager.”

Bullshit. I suppress another giggle. I’ve caught a glimpse or two of his dick; it’s rock-hard, and the head, taut with blood, is shiny and purple. He can pretend he’s not getting off on this all he wants, but his body is giving him away. Big time.

“Okay, so where was I?”

“Horses and dimples.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Please continue Professor Kinney.”

He goes back to thrusting languorously against that lucky fucking pillow.

“Remember,” he says didactically. “There’s no point in fucking unless you can do it well. If you suck at it, word’s going to get out, and once it’s out, it’s hard to put it back in.”

“Huh?” I shake my head. The only words I heard from those two sentences were “fucking,” “suck,” “hard” and “in-&-out.”

He ignores me and continues. “If you can’t fuck, then go for a blowjob. Never let anyone think you’re a novice, and even if you are, don’t act like one.”

“God, you’re making it sound like the backroom is a hosting country for the Olympics!”

“Well, yeah. That’s because it is. People’s reps are made and broken at Babylon – and I don’t mean on the dance floor.”

I stare at him, unsure whether to laugh or not, but when he breaks into one of his wide, impish smiles, I burst into giggles again.

He throws a pillow at me. “Here. Instead of watching, how about doing? Start humpin’, Sunshine.”

I position the pillow beneath my hips and prop myself up on my hands. We’re side-by-side, and I glance over at him. It’s like were doing naked push-ups at the gym.

“Okay, fuck the horse,” he says. We both crack up again, and we’re not even stoned.

“Right,” he says, getting serious again. “Forget the horseback riding analogy. Let’s talk about style. Everyone who’s a champion fuck has an identifiable personal style. Think of it this way: a bottom should be able to think about tops as condiments. Top X fucks like ketchup; Top Y fucks like mustard, etcetera, etcetera. All he needs to do is decide which one he wants that night.”

“What condiment are you?” I ask. He pauses a moment to consider the question.

“Hmmm, let’s see. I’d say sweet&sour, except for the sweet part, or hot sauce, except it’s too predictable. Maybe a nice mango chutney . . .”

“Wasabi,” I say. “Definitely wasabi.”

“Why? Because I get up your nose and bring tears to your eyes?”

I laugh. “Something like that.”

“Okay, then wasabi it is. Now the question is what condiment do you want to be? Is it going to be boring old Miracle Whip or a thick cream sauce made with freshly chopped tarragon and a hint – just a hint – of garlic?”

“Not bad for a man incapable of making anything that requires actual heat and can only find the kitchen if I've made coffee and you can smell it from the bedroom.”

“Shush, young grasshopper, or I shall have to rap your knuckles with something hard - like my dick, for instance. Okay. Step One: decide whether to prepare your bottom or not and, if so, whether you’re going to finger or rim.”

I scrunch up my nose. He’s the only one I’ve done either to, and I loved it, but I’m not sure I want to do it to someone else. After all, we’re talking assholes here.

He laughs. “You look like something smells bad.”

“Because it might,” I reply.

He nods with a serious expression. “True,” he says. “The possibility cannot be discounted. Here’s my advice: just tap the guy’s hole and then sniff your fingertip . . .”

I am out of bed and in the kitchen before I even realize I’ve moved at all. Jesus Christ! UGH!!! I actually have to swallow back a retch. I look back at the bed. He’s rolling around and laughing so hard that he’s given himself a case hiccups.

“Ugh, Brian!” I shout at him from a safe distance. “That’s disgusting! You almost made me puke up my breakfast!”

“Ew,” he gasps. “That’d be gross. You had a Spanish omelet.”

“That would be gross?” I squeak. “Try some dude’s unwashed butthole! Forget it. I’ve decided I don’t want to learn how to fuck . . .” I pause. Dare I say it? Why not? “. . . that is except if it’s you . . .”

He stops laughing although he’s still got hiccups, which make his ensuing “not fucking likely” sound like Alvin the Chipmunk. It’s so adorable that I return to the bedroom.

“Alright *hic-cup* alright. You don’t *hic-cup* have to do it that *hic-cup* way, although it is the most expedient. There are *hic-cup* other means of *hic-cup* ascertaining the *hic-cup* cleanliness of a guy’s *hic-cup* ass. Or, of course, you could *hic-cup* carry Wet-Whips along with your *hic-cup* condoms.”

More laughter and hic-cupping ensue, but I don’t see why. Moist toilettes actually sound like a really good idea.

It takes a good five minutes or so till Brian gets rid of his hic-cups, but he’s still chuckling. I’ve never seen him so amused by something, which, of course, makes me grin too, no matter how unappetizing the subject matter.

“Listen,” he says. “Most guys who go to Babylon or the baths looking to get fucked wash their assholes before they go. The really considerate bottoms even douche. Bet you didn't know Summer’s Eve isn’t just for women.”

“You’re right,” I say. “I didn’t know, and I wish I still didn’t.”

“Ah, Sunshine,” he says indulgently. “So young, so naïve. Enemas are a top’s best friend. I just don’t like them when they smell ‘fresh, like a summer’s breeze.’” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “I think I might’ve just come up with a new advertising campaign: ‘Butt-Clean™. It smells like a man’s anus should.’”

I’m ready to give up and go watch T.V. but Brian hasn’t lost his impressive hard-on. The man’s amazing.

“Does anything ever make you soft except an orgasm?” I ask.

He thinks for a moment. “Pussy,” he says. “You have never seen anything more horrifying in your life. They’re like moist, hairy, meat-eating flowers.”

I feel my breakfast rise again.

“By comparison, they make even smelly assholes seem like delicacies.”

I must look like I’m ready to cry, vomit, bolt or all of the above because he takes pity on me. “Relax, Sunshine. You’re fucking style can include no preparation. Just tell the guy first, so he can renege if he wants, but most experienced bottoms don’t mind – in fact, most of them like penetration to hurt a little bit. Like you.” He winks at me with a sly smile.

“What do you usually do?” I ask, genuine curiosity mixing with my queasiness.

“Depends,” he replies. “If I can smell soap, I’ll finger a guy. I love assholes. But I don’t rim unless I’m out-of-my-mind horny.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You rimmed me,” I say, and he just shrugs.

“Like I said: I only rim when my balls feel like they’re going to burst.” I know he knows what his admission means to me. “Which is why I had to jerk off right after I rimmed you that first time. I didn’t want to fuck your brains out right off the bat, but my balls were fucking blue. You were so fucking hot.”

My dick starts to swell as he pulls me down for a long, deep kiss.

“Alright,” he says huskily. “Back to your lesson. Step two: put on your condom.” He retrieves two from the bowl on his nightstand.

“Now?” I say. “But we’re not really fucking . . .”

“Doesn’t matter. Just the mere thought of fucking should make you reach for your pocket. It’s got to be instinct. You have to be able to do it without needing to consciously think about what you’re doing. It’s got to be a reflex. And if you’re out of condoms, ask your bottom. A bottom who’s douched his ass will also be carrying condoms, and if he isn’t, tell him to blow you instead. A guy not carrying a condom is probably positive – or fucking stupid . . .”

I blush. “I wasn’t carrying any that night.”

“Because you weren’t planning on fucking,” he says. “Have you ever not carried one since?”

I shake my head, and he smiles. “Good boy,” he says, ruffling my hair.

We both put on our condoms. It’s exciting despite the fact I’ll only be fucking a pillow; this is the first time I’ve ever worn one.

“Always use lubed condoms,” he says, tugging on the tip of his to create enough room. His loads are fucking tidal. “Unlubed ones can tear. They’re only good for straight people and whatever nasty things they do. Plus it’s more comfortable for your partner.”

“What about ribbed or nubbed ones?” I ask, and he rolls his eyes.

“Marketing gimmick, although a fucking good one. Plus, shit like that will interfere with your sensation. Only guys who suck at fucking need assistance from their rubbers. Got yours on? Okay, fold your pillow in half. That’s it. Now take hold of your dick and position it. Nothing’s lamer than jabbing around at a guy’s ass, trying to find his hole like you're playing 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey.' You want to be lined up right so that your cock just pops right in.”

He grips his cock and guides it into the space created by the folding of the pillow; I follow suit.

“Okay,” he says. “Here’s a another place for personal style. You can either enter slowly or you can slam right in. You know, of course, that for me it’s usually the latter.”

I watch as he thrusts his hips forward sharply, and that’s the moment I know that, even though I'll be fucking a pillow, I’m going to come. It’s also the moment I feel my desire override my jealousy. I want to watch Brian fuck someone up-close. I want to see the guy’s face when Brian stretches him wide with his rock-hard cock and starts thrusting brutally like he is now. He grunts. He must be able to feel the heat of my gaze.

“Go on,” he says breathlessly. “Don’t just mimic me. Do what comes naturally.”

I close my eyes and concentrate. My dick is throbbing, but I’m feeling a bit self-conscious; after all, I’m fucking a pillow . . .

“Go on,” he says again, his face close enough to mine that I feel his breath on my cheek. “Think about some hot guy you saw at Babylon last night. Just make sure you make it last until he comes. Never come first. Tops who come first are pathetic -- unless, of course, you can come twice. Make the fuck more about him than you – until he shoots, of course, and then go for your orgasm like your very survival depends on it. If it's a really good fuck, it might actually be true.”

But I don’t want to think about some random guy from Babylon. I didn’t see anyone last night that I wanted to fuck . . . that is, anyone other than Brian. I frown.

“Then pretend it’s me,” he says, his voice low. “Pretend you’re about to fuck me; pretend I’m on my knees, waiting for you to fill my ass. Pretend I’m begging you for it; that I’m swearing I’ll die if you don’t hurry up and fuck me. I’m open and ready. Come on, Sunshine. Fuck me.”

I whimper helplessly because his words have done the trick. The image he’s painted is vivid behind my closed eyelids – as vivid as any porno flick I’ve ever watched. Brian’s on his knees with his face on the mattress. His legs are spread, and his balls are hanging, plump and full between them. I feel mine pull up and tighten in response. My arousal long ago passed endurable. I seize my dick and carefully, slowly ease into his body, not stopping until I’m as deep as I can go. I pause, letting the sensation of being inside him fill me to the brim and then, as it starts pouring over, I begin thrusting. I feel the tightness of his channel start to loosen to accept my full length and width. Every spasm inside of him pushes me as I stumble forward until I find a rhythm. My rhythm. It’s not at all like his – his full-body collisions wrenching unbearably sweet sensations from the core of your body – it’s gentler, deeper, pulling only a fraction of the way out and then pumping back in again. I imagine him jerking his cock with one hand while the other clutches the sheet so tightly that his knuckles are white. He grunts with my every push, moving his own body to create even deeper penetration. I watch him working for release, desperate, tortured, shaking all over. He’s not a passive recipient of my pleasure, but a partner as we work together for his climax . . .”

“. . . I’m about to come, Sunshine,” he whispers. “Find that one last angle that’s going to push me over my edge. You might not be able to reach it, but try for the prostate. If I cant my hips just right . . .”

Behind my closed eyes, I see his body seize up, still and rigid. His orgasm is so intense that he doesn’t even make a sound until it’s over, and when he does, it’s a heartfelt groan of gratitude. I grab his hips and yank his pliant body back, and (to my surprise), slap him on the side of his ass hard and then a second time even harder. When his body jerks with sensation, I slam into him and freeze until every last spurt has filled my condom. Utterly spent, I collapse on top of him and send us both sprawling onto the mattress wet with his semen and sweat.

Fuck. Holy fucking fuck.

I slowly open my heavy eyelids and come back to reality. He’s on his knees, staring down at me, his cheeks and throat flushed. He’s removed his condom, and he’s jerking off. When he looks at my face and sees that my eyes are open, he closes his, throws his head back, and comes all over my ass. I feel the hot splatters go on and on.

“Fuck, that was hot,” he groans when he’s found his bearings again. “Jesus, you should’ve seen yourself. That pillow’s not going to be able to walk for a week.”

I burst out laughing. He grabs me and rolls me over.

“So,” he says, moving to straddle my hips. “Who’d you think about?”

I make a duh! face. “Who do you think, smartass?”

He smirks. He knows full well who I was thinking of, and he’s obviously as pleased as punch about it.

“So?” I say. “How’d I do?”

He makes that pondering expression again. “Not bad,” he says at last. “And quite unusual and original. You’re all about depth and rhythm. Confident but not showy. Mature beyond your tender years. Obviously going for duration and not just for fireworks. Controlled, poised, dignified. Good aim. Likely to hit most guys’ prostates. If you can perform the same way with an actual guy, I’d give you an A+

My jaw drops. No fucking way. Brian Kinney just gave me an A fucking plus on my first try at something?

He grins at me. “Congratulations, Mr. Taylor. Only thing is now you need to maintain. A few fucks like that, and you’ll be a backroom favorite. You’ll be fighting off the bottoms with a stick . . . or, more appropriately, beating off the bottoms with your stick.”

I’m grinning like an idiot. He rolls his eyes and wipes it off my face with a demanding kiss. When he sits up again, he reaches between his thighs, pulls off my condom and empties the contents on my belly. Covering my dick with my come, he slides down and sucks me back to stiffness. When I’m fully hard again, he stops and looks up at me with a serious expression. I frown when his gaze remains focused on my face long after the point of awkwardness. He’s thinking. But then he shakes his head and laughs.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he replies and resumes sucking my dick. I reach down and lift his chin.

“Bullshit,” I say. “What were you just thinking?”

He smiles somewhat sheepishly and shrugs. “Only that I haven’t bottomed in a really long time.”

My heart rate spikes. Is he thinking what I think he’s thinking? Is he thinking about letting me fuck him? But then he rolls his eyes.

“Dream on,” he says, reading my mind. He must’ve seen my face fall because he gives the tip of my cock a playful kiss. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to watch. In fact, I think we could make one kickass team.”

“More like a fuck-ass team,” I say, smiling. Knowing he wants to watch me fuck someone else is one step closer to letting me fuck him.

At least I’m going to keep telling myself that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You surely noticed that all poor Justin gets to fuck is a pillow that night. That's because in my head canon, the time he fucks Brian in season 2 is the first time. Not the last, of course, but the first. But too bad Brian didn't get to be Justin's first. The stolen trick Sean had that honor. *smacks Brian*


	7. Finding Brian Kinney's Gag Reflex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title and the tags say it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've found my kinky QaF muse. This is the prequel to Finding Brian Kinney's Prostate because I'm pretty sure Brian gave Justin a gag-reflex-triggering blow job long before he let Justin put a finger in his ass.

“I told you. I don’t have one.”

“Everyone has one.”

“Really? How many people have you asked?”

I’m stumped. Of course I’ve never asked anyone about their gag reflex, not even Daphne. All I have to go on is my own. True, it’s hard to trigger, but it does exist. Once I’d had too much to drink at a party. I was stumbling around, and every time I lay down, the room started spinning. Mom was supposed to pick me up at eleven, but I couldn’t speak without slurring. Stick your finger down your throat, some random guy had told me. It took forever, and by the time I managed to throw up, tears were streaming down my face. True, I felt better afterward, but I wasn’t eager to relive the experience.

“Did you learn to ignore it?”

“Nope. Didn’t have to.”

“Well, I don’t have one either,” I lie.

He rolls onto his side and gives me a knowing smile. “Bullshit,” he said. “I heard you that one time.”

“I hadn’t expected you to do that.”

“A gag is a gag, Sunshine, and you gagged.”

I roll on to my back and cross my arms. I fix him with a sullen expression, which makes his smile turn into a grin.

“Do you want me to prove it?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, “give it your best shot. Just don’t throw up on me. Oh, and don’t hurt yourself.”

“Your dick isn’t that big . . .”

“I’m not kidding. You don’t have to prove a point.”

He brushes my bangs back and gives me that new look he’s been giving me lately. It’s still mocking, but it’s also indulgent and even a little pleased. I like to pretend it means “I love you,” but I’m probably – no, forget “probably” – I am deluding myself. It doesn’t matter though. I’ve made progress. Last week, he even seemed a teeny-tiny bit upset that I’d applied to out-of-state colleges. He thinks he’s unreadable; he thinks I believed that crap about “well, it’s just the first I’ve heard of it, that’s all,” but that’s bullshit. I can read him like a book, and his expression that morning was clear – I’m not sure I want you to go, it’d said. Like I was saying, the process is slow and the victories small and far apart, but then again, I’m patient – patient and persistent as hell.

I watch as he slowly pulls the sheet off of me as though he’s revealing a sculpture he’d carved at an unveiling ceremony. When I’m naked, he runs his hand from my throat to my belly. I’m already hard – of course, I’m already hard. I have been for the whole conversation. We may have been discussing gag reflexes, but the thought of Brian swallowing around my dick . . . holy shit. Holy fucking shit!

“Mmmmm,” he hums appreciatively. “Your interest has clearly been piqued.”

I laugh. He loves his silly cock puns, and I do too. They’re so juvenile. He places a lingering kiss on my nipple and then slowly leaves wet kisses down to my groin. Brian hasn’t sucked my dick except for a couple of times, but it was clear he’d enjoyed himself. I’d wanted to ask him if he ever gives tricks head, but of course I didn’t. It’s not my business, and even if it was, I’m not sure I want to know the answer. Daphne’s dad is a lawyer; he was talking about cross-examining a witness once. Never ask a question if you don’t know what the answer will be, especially when you think you might not like it. It’s a useful tip that I use almost daily when I’m with Brian.

He slides down the bed and insinuates himself between my legs. I’m propped up on my elbows watching him. He smiles a lascivious grin, and his eyes don’t leave mine when he licks the length of my cock from the base to the tip. He’s unapologetically aroused; I watch the slow rise and fall of his ass as he rubs against the mattress. Once again, I feel thankful that I didn’t have to learn about sex with some fumbling teenager as stupid about everything as I was. Instead, I got a lover – a mentor, even. He just simply doesn’t give a shit; I can’t imagine him ever being embarrassed or unsure, even when he was my age. It’s like he’d sprung from his mother’s womb like Athena, condom and cock ring in hand, ready to pleasure the masses.

He starts slowly. I watch his lips part to accept the head of my dick; I watch him claim it. Claim me.

“You taste like French fries,” he says, and I cover my face. Asshole.

“People never wash their hands,” he says, sounding like a disappointed elementary school teacher.

“You shouldn’t mind,” I say. “The fries were particularly good tonight. That new guy knows how to do them just right – not too crispy . . .”

“But not too limp.”

“That is so lame, Brian.”

He shrugs. “If you don’t like my puns, then don’t throw me softballs. Now shut up and let me suck your dick.”

He takes me deeper this time. His mouth is open, his lips parted and his jaw loose. There’s little friction, just slippery heat and the softest touch. I want to start thrusting, but I don’t. I want to wait to see what he’s going to do. After a while, I won’t be able to stop myself, but right now, I’m still in control. Still master of my own body.

He pulls away with a loud, obscene slurp sound. “Taking notes?” he asks. “I hope so because you’re next.”

“Always,” I say breathlessly. “I have a lot of competition.”

He snorts. “You give them too much credit,” he replies. “And you give yourself too little.”

I grin. Another penny tossed in the fountain. He smiles. He knows I took his words for what they were meant to be – a compliment. Don’t worry, his words said. All those guys, they’re not all that.

He lowers his head and takes me in his mouth again. It’s hard to believe that sardonic mouth is capable of such tenderness. I comb my fingers into his hair and feel his head move under my hands.

“Brian,” I murmur. I’ve learned I can say his name like that when we’re fucking, infuse it with longing and gratitude without him getting spooked and annoyed.

His eyes had closed. When he hears his name, he opens them and looks at my face. He has beautiful eyes. It’s said that hazel is the most common eye color for Caucasians, and “common” usually stands in for “boring.” But there’s nothing boring about Brian’s eyes. His real self – the self that emerges when he’s alone and no one’s watching him – looks out of those eyes. There’s a kind of vulnerability in them, but also resolve. From what I’ve gleaned about his past, it sounds like vulnerability and resolve, not arrogance and ruthlessness, have ruled his life, have made him who he is. I wonder if I’m the only one who’s realized this.

You’re so beautiful, I want to tell him. So fucking ridiculously beautiful, but if I did, it would wreck the moment – maybe the night. Maybe even everything. So, I keep my mouth closed. I can tell it to shut the fuck up, but I can’t tell my eyes to do the same. He can see it. I’m sure he can. But only words seem to bother him. Looks and touches are all he permits. Maybe even all he thinks he deserves.

I’ve been caught up in my thoughts, so I’m surprised by the sudden nearness of my orgasm. I place my palm on his forehead and push him away. He smiles up at me knowingly.

“Gotta keep working on that,” he says. “You shouldn’t be caught off guard like that; I never am.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“You say that with such confidence.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He arches an eyebrow at me. “I hadn’t meant it to be, but okay, yeah, it’s a challenge.”

“And if I succeed?”

“If you succeed, I will blow you on the dance floor at Babylon.”

Clearly, I must look shocked because he laughs at me. “Which means,” he says, “that I’m confident you won’t be able to do it. No offense, Sunshine, but I’ve been practicing holding back since I was thirteen. I haven’t been surprised by an orgasm since I’ve been old enough to drink.”

“Even when you’re on ecstasy?”

“Even when I’m on E or a cocktail or even coke.”

I swallow at the mention of coke. I’m not used to Brian’s casual references to it yet, and it upsets me. I’ve never done drugs, and I’ve always had negative opinions about the people who did. “Druggies” we called them in school. Pot was no big deal, but anything harder was beyond my realm of experience – just like sex had been. All that’d changed in a matter of weeks. But thankfully Brian has never pressured me to try anything. I’m pretty sure he’d be fine if I never did. He likes to get me drunk though, but that’s a different kettle of fish.

“Practice counting down from ten,” he says, “and don’t come until you get to number one. The slower you count, the better at lasting you’ll become.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding. “But do I have to count out loud?”

Brian laughs, but then he gets that look. “Do it,” he says. “I want to hear you.” He goes back to sucking my dick, but it’s not gentle anymore. He swallows me to the balls and grabs my hips, encouraging me to thrust upward, deeper down his throat. When I hold back, he pinches me. Hard. The message is clear. I throw aside all control, all restraint, all fear that it’ll be too much for him.

“Ten,” I gasp as I pound into the back of his throat. I grab a fistful of his hair and start thrusting like mad.

“Nine,” I whimper. There’s no fucking way I’m going to make it to one. He’s swallowing around me. I must be ramming his tonsils, but there are no tears squeezing from his eyes and no tension in his body. He’s still rocking his own hips, rubbing himself. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s getting off on this.

“Eight.” It’s nothing but a squeak. I’m gritting my teeth too hard to utter an actual word. He slaps my right hip as though I’m a horse and he’s urging me forward, faster and faster, toward a finish line. I grab his head with both hands and hold him still as I fuck his mouth.

“Seven.” It’s just a shallow exhale. I doubt Brian can even hear it between the tortured sounds I’m making. He shakes free of my hands and begins swallowing my dick at the same time I thrust upward.

“Six.” Jesus fucking Christ he was right. He doesn’t have a gag reflex. I’m not being arrogant when I say I have a pretty decent sized cock. It’s bigger than most I’ve seen – at least in real life. Porn stars are freaks of nature, so they don’t count. I’m not nine inches, but I’m close enough to claim convincingly that I am. He’s taking it effortlessly.

“Five.” He slaps me again, and I put all my strength and energy into fucking his throat. My stomach muscles are starting to hurt, and I know I’ll be feeling all of this exertion tomorrow.

“Four . . .”

But that’s it. It’s over. I bat his head to tell him I’m a fraction of a second away from coming, but the asshole pinches me again and then, impossibly, amazingly, swallows me deeper.

My body bucks when my orgasm hits. If he was going to gag, it would be now. He grabs my hand and squeezes it until I think my fingers are going to break, but he doesn’t pull back and when he sucks until his cheeks hollow out, it feels like he’s wrenching every last drop of come from my body. It’s fucking excruciating! When I finally stop shuddering, he releases my dick with a wet pop and laughs as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You only made it to four,” he says. His voice is hoarse, and I’m thrilled to see there are tears in his eyes.

“I should’ve counted faster,” I say between pants. “Did I find your gag reflex?”

“Not even close,” he says, sniffling as though he has a cold.

“Bullshit.” I feel elated like an explorer who’s discovered a new continent.

He laughs and lies down beside me. I trace his body with my eyes until I get to his groin . . .

. . . he's not hard. Goddamnit, he’s fucking soft!

He must see the horror and chagrin in my expression because he cracks up. I’m sure he’s going to say something shitty, but instead, he rolls onto his back, revealing the wet spot on the mattress.

“Oh my God,” I say disbelievingly. “Oh my God, Brian! You came. You fucking came!”

He shrugs and reaches for his cigarettes. “So I came. Big deal.”

Asshole.

“Truth or dare?” I say.

He’s got a cigarette balanced between his swollen lips. He raises his eyebrows in his “What the fuck are you talking about” expression.

“Truth or dare,” I say again, “and believe me, you won’t like the dare. I’ll make you do something lesbionic.”

He smirks. “Truth, then.”

I look at him solemnly. “This is Truth Or Dare. You can’t cheat.”

“Cross my heart,” he says, making the gesture with the hand that’s not holding the lit cigarette.

“Did you get to one?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Did you get to one before you came?”

He just looks at me. It’s almost the same look he gave me when he threw me out after the loft was burglarized. For a second I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.

“No,” he says with unquestionable finality.

“How close did you get?”

He glares at me. “Closer than you did, you little twat.”

“How close?”

But he just looks at me with that flat “we’re done discussing this” gaze. I relent. After all, I don’t really care what the number is; I only care that I made Brian Kinney, the sex god of western Pennsylvania, come before he was ready to.

Take away lesson? I am fucking awesome.


	8. Phone Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian teaches Justin the art of come-in-your-pants phone sex.

PHONE SEX

School always sucked, but since coming out it sucks even more. The shit is never ending. You’d have thought Hobbs & Co. could come up with some new material, but sadly no. “Faggot.” “Dick licker.” “Queer.” Blah, blah, blah. So on and so forth. Although, one of Hobbs’ knucklehead friends did coin the term “ass thumper,” which is actually kind of amusing; it makes me think of “Bambi.” And another one is heavily into alliteration. “Fucking faggy fudge-packing fairy” is one of his creations, as is “poofy poncy pansy pillow-biter,” although I’m not sure I know exactly what he means by the second one. Must’ve been something he picked-up during his semester abroad at Eton along with a case of gonorrhea if the rumors are true, and they usually are.

The one good thing is that they no longer give me shit after school while I’m waiting for the bus. They had the misfortune once of trying to spit Snapple on me when Brian came to pick me up. He was dressed to kill (even more so than usual; there must’ve been an important client meeting). He didn’t say anything. He just slammed on the brakes and told me to get in the Jeep, but before we drove away, he went over to the guys who were being assholes to me and said something. I have no idea what it was, but they’ve never given me any trouble since beyond their juvenile name-calling.

I’m not afraid of anyone, but I like to lay low anyway. I don’t make scenes unless I have to (or want to). Why invite even more shit if I can help it? But sometimes it can be hard to camouflage myself – especially that time Brian made me come in my pants in front of everyone at lunchtime . . .

Two weeks ago

. . . I’m in the cafeteria eating a nutritious lunch of Doritos, Mountain Dew and mini Snickers when my phone rings. Daph has to catch me when I nearly fall backwards off the bench. Brian is calling me. For the first time ever. I didn’t even know he had my number.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound blasé when in actuality my heart is swinging from rib to rib like Tarzan.

“Shut up.”

Okay. What the fuck?

“Do you have a notebook and pen handy because I’m about to teach you something even your greasy pervert band instructor won’t.”

“I don’t take band . . .”

“I said, ‘shut up.’”

Daph is punching me in the arm trying to get me to put Brian on speaker. Yeah, right. I glare at her until she goes back to reading Toni Morrison.

“Close your eyes and picture this,” Brian says. “I’m in my office with the door locked. I’m leaning back in my kick-ass chair, and I’ve got my legs spread open as far as possible. My dick is so huge and hard and throbbing it’s testing the resilience of my zipper, which, I must say, had better be up to the task, so to speak. I paid nearly a couple thousand for this suit . . .”

“Holy shit!” I say. “A couple thousand . . . ?”

“Jesus Christ, Justin. Shut the fuck up, will you?”

I almost say “okay,” but catch myself in the nick of time. Instead I nod, which is stupid because, of course, Brian can’t see me.

“I’m rubbing my cock against the crotch seam and leaking pre-come like a fucking faucet. There’s a wet spot where it’s soaking through my pants. I can smell it. It smells like sex. Like fucking. Like fucking you.”

Oh. Dear. Merciful. God. I’d just taken a swig of Mountain Dew and almost spray it all over Daph. Instead, it goes up my nose and fries my brain with carbonated liquid sugar. I heroically stifle a profanity.

“If you were here, I could fuck you without lube – that’s how much pre-come there is. It’s like I came already. God, it’s actually pretty fucking ridiculous.”

He isn’t the only one leaking like a broken faucet. I cross my legs. Thank God my pants are black.

“I’ve been thinking about you all morning – your eyes, your mouth, the way you ride my cock, your boner slapping my stomach. You’re so horny. You’re so fucking close. Your balls are tight and you’re squeezing them while you’re riding me. You’re so far gone I don’t think you even realize that the sounds you’re making are totally undignified.”

I blush. He’s right that I don’t remember what I say – or try to say – when he’s fucking me. I could be screaming for Jesus, Mary and divine Saint Joseph for all I know.

“It makes me so fucking hot that I can barely hold back. You can’t help it, and it’s my cock that’s doing it to you, driving you out of your mind. Making you come so hard your jizz hits the pillow behind my head.”

He half-groans half-chuckles.

“I’m going to open my fly and take out my dick now. I’m going to hold the phone so you can hear the zipper, and then I’m going to fuck my fist so you can hear how slimy and wet my cock is.”

I’m breathing loudly through my nose. I try to calm down so I can listen, but it’s not easy. If I hold my breath even for a few seconds, I start feeling lightheaded. I close my eyes and hear the clink of a belt buckle followed by the faint sound of a zipper and a wet, rhythmic slapping. I groan out loud. I can’t help it. Daph looks at me funny.

“That’s it, Sunshine. Now open your pants, pull them down to your knees, bend over and spread your ass cheeks for me. I need to eat that sweet hole of yours . . .”

“Uhm, Brian? I’m in the cafeteria, and there’s like a thousand people around me.”

He sighs. “I didn’t mean literally, you silly twat.”

Oh. Okay.

“Alright, my pants are around my knees then, and I’m spreading my ass cheeks.”

Daph stares at me. It’s hard not to giggle.

“Can you feel my tongue? I’m licking your hole alternating between the flat and tip of my tongue. It’s all I can do not to touch myself. I could come just from the taste of you alone, but I’m not ready yet. Now sit down on my face and let me suck your balls. That’s it. Don’t be shy. I’ll pinch you if I can’t breathe. Wriggle that gorgeous ass of yours. I want to bury my face in your crack. You’re so fucking hot, Justin.”

My mouth is hanging open. I try to close it, but then he says something even more obscene than the last thing he said. His voice is low and gravelly, and his every sentence is punctuated by a tiny moan.

“Lean forward and suck on my dick like you’re fucking starving and I’m food. Have we sixty-nined yet? If not, I’ll show you how. It’s not as easy to do well as you might think . . . God, fuck, you’re nearly choking on my cock, but you still want more so I wrap my legs around your shoulders and fuck your mouth with every rock-hard inch. Your hole is twitching open, so I can get my tongue in deeper. You’re fucking it, completely out of control, completely open, completely ready for anything I want to do to you. And I’m going to do everything, Justin. I’m going to blow your fucking mind and take you to heaven and back again and again until you can’t take any more and beg me to let you rest.”

I make a sobbing sound. I can feel the people sitting at the nearby tables staring at me, and I don’t give one solitary flying fuck.

“Jesus,” he moans. “Fuck, you’re going to make me come. I’m not going to be able to wait until I’m in your ass. I’m going to come like this. Down your throat, fucking your tonsils. I’m going to shoot my load in your mouth. Fuck . . . . . . Oh God . . . !”

He whimpers. He actually whimpers, and then I hear him come. It isn’t an act. I know what he sounds like when he shoots. Then I hear him inhale deeply. Poppers. He’s going to come again. It’s me who whimpers this time.

“I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck you till you scream. I’m going to fuck you till you can’t remember your own name. Get on your knees. That’s right. Get that ass up there; beg me to fuck you. I squirt the lube right up inside you as far as I can. I want to fill you up with it till it’s dripping down your balls. I want you tight and wet. I want to feel your greedy ass take my cock to the root. I get on my knees behind you and slap your ass with my dick. That’s it, that’s it. Just like that. Swallow my cock whole. Jesus, you’re fucking amazing! Look how you’re taking it all – taking me all in. I’m on the edge of coming again. I can’t last any longer. I enter you with one hard thrust . . . Oh . . . Oh, fuck! Push back, Justin. Faster. Milk my cock, fuck the come right out of me. That’s right. Come on, Sunshine, give it all you’ve got. Ride the fucking shit out of me. You were born to have my cock up your ass, plowing you wide open, making you see God and all His fucking angels . . . Oh, Jesus . . . I’m coming. I’m coming in your ass. I’m fucking coming inside you . . .”

I can’t help it. Fuck everybody and everything. Brian’s coming inside me without a condom, and I’m going to faint. I reach down and squeeze my dick. That’s all it takes, and I’m coming harder than I’ve ever come in my life. I must’ve made a sound because Brian chuckles breathlessly.

“Came in your pants, huh?” he says. “Well, I was lucky – got to come all over my desk. It’s a fucking mess. I’m going to have to print out new copies of the project outline I was working on. It was worth it though – more than worth it.”

I make some kind of weak, bleating sound. Words rattle around in my head, senseless and unusable. All I can say is his name . . .

“Brian.”

He laughs warmly, indulgently. “I hope you were taking notes because it’s your turn next. I’ll have you call me during a meeting or something. We’ll have to see if you can make me come in my pants.”

“Is that a challenge?” I gasp. I haven’t come down from my orgasm yet and am starting to wonder if I ever will.

“Damn right it is. Now go clean up and go to class . . . what is it?”

“Calculus.”

“Well, have fun.”

I’m shaking all over. I take a deep breath. He’ll hate me asking, but I have to do it anyway. I need to see him after what we’ve just done. I feel weird. I need him to hold me. It’s like I just lost my virginity all over again.

“Can I see you tonight?” I whisper and wince as I wait for the mocking reply.

“Why wait until tonight? I’ll take the rest of the day off and pick you up after school. You know what they say about words versus actions and all that.”

He hangs up before I can respond, and I sit there in sticky underwear grinning like an idiot.

“I’m not even going to ask,” Daph says. She stuffs her books in her bag and stands up.

I look up at her. I’m suddenly feeling more than a little embarrassed.

“Uhm, sorry about that,” I mumble. “It’s just that . . . well, Brian . . . he, uhm . . .”

“Had sex with you courtesy of AT&T?”

I laugh. “Something like that.”

I take her hand and let her pull me to my feet. Two more classes before school’s over. I can’t help but tell her.

“Brian’s picking me up.”

She raises her eyebrows. “For real?”

“For real.”

She smiles that weak smile she’s been smiling lately. I’m about to ask her what’s wrong when my phone rings.

It’s Brian again.

Twice in one day. Holy shit.

He cuts me off before I can even say hello. “Don’t forget your homework,” he says curtly and then hangs up again. As if I would. Maybe, just maybe, I’m not the only one who feels a bit shaky and overwhelmed.

I can’t ask. But I can hope.


	9. Phone Sex - Justin's Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin follows through on his phone sex lesson - and gets an A+.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to OrangeTheNewBlue in gratitude for the prompt.

PHONE SEX - JUSTIN'S TURN

I pick up the phone. And then I put it down. Then I pick it up. And then I put it down. Then I pick it up. And then I put it down. Etc. Etc. Etc. On and on. Yada yada.

I’ve been trying to work up the nerve all morning. I’d even drunk a second cup of Brian’s high octane coffee, which, come to think of it, might not have been the best idea. A joint would’ve been a better choice, but I don’t know where Brian keeps his stash of weed, and even if I did, I wouldn’t know how to roll one. I’d tried once and made a mess. Fortunately, Brian was already stoned and found the doomed enterprise highly amusing.

I pick up the phone.

And then I put it down again.

What am I thinking? Brian is either going to laugh at me or yell at me. But he’d told me to do it, so he’s to blame if I make him spit his bottled water all over his desk.

C’mon, he’d said. You can do it. I showed you how. A bright lad like yourself should be able to grasp the concept.

I do grasp the concept. It’s putting the concept into practice that’s the problem.

Dammit.

I’d tried it out in front of the mirror earlier as though I was preparing for an oral presentation at school. It hadn’t helped.

Hey, Brian, I’d purred at my reflection. I’ve been sitting here all morning thinking about your . . . your cock . . .

And that had been as far as I got because, to be honest, I’ve never said the word “cock” before. It’s always been “dick.” But somehow “dick” doesn’t sound as sexy as “cock,” and Brian definitely has a “cock,” not a “dick.” My classmates have “dicks.” Not Brian. He has a long, thick beauty of a “cock” – a “cock” so magnificent that it defies a mere mortal’s ability to describe its perfection. It doesn’t get hard; it gets rigid. Press your fingers against the fattest vein, and you can feel his pulse throbbing with every heartbeat. Hold it tight in your fist, and the head turns a gorgeous florid purple. Stroke it, and moisture beads in the slit. Lick it from its hard ridge behind his balls to its tip slimy with pre-come, and it lurches, begging you to swallow it to the root. And when you do, it feels hot against your lips and tastes like sex smells – rich and earthy and so very, very filthy.

So, yeah. Bottom line: Brian has a “cock.” The problem is I can’t say the word without cracking up.

I jump out of my skin when the phone rings reminding me why that second mug of coffee was a bad idea. I pick it up.

“Well?”

It’s Brian, and as usual he’s exasperated and impatient.

“Well, what?” I squeak despite knowing exactly what he means.

“Well, are you going to make me come in my briefs or not? I wore a pair made of extra thick cotton that’ll absorb my spunk, so it won’t make a mess of my suit pants. They’re bunchy and hot, and I don’t want to have worn them for nothing.”

I bite my lip to hold back the nervous laughter that’s threatening to escape and ruin everything before it’s even started.

“Uhm, are you . . . is this a good time?”

“Of course, it’s a good time. I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t a good time. Now start talking before Bob and Brad barge through my door with another shitty proposal.”

“Bob, Brad and Brian,” I say. “You guys sound like you’re a barbershop quartet except you aren’t because you’re missing a person. Is there anyone in your office named ‘Buck’?”

“What the hell are you babbling about?”

This time the nervous giggle escapes, and I want to die a thousand – no, make that a million – deaths.

He sighs.

“Need me to kick things off?”

I take a deep breath. If I’m going to do this at all, then I’m going to do it right, doggone it!

“No, I got it,” I say and take another deep breath. “Okay, ready?”

“Do I really need to answer that question?”

“No, it was entirely rhetorical.”

He laughs, and my anxiety decreases a tiny bit. I take yet another deep breath.

“I . . . I’m sitting in that chair. You know, the one we were on when I was feeding you ice cream – and I was thinking about sitting on your lap with your . . . your . . . uhm . . . your . . .”

“My what?” he asks. “My cock?”

“Right, yeah. That. Thanks. Anyway I’m sitting there and your . . . your cock is between my ass cheeks, you know, like a hotdog in a bun?”

“Mmmmm, that’s hot,” he says. “My dick’s all atwitter.”

“Well, I have to get the image right,” I protest. “Otherwise you won’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I get it, Picasso. Go on.”

“And it’s really hard, and I can’t decide if I want to suck it or fuck it.”

“Fuck it.”

“Right. Okay. Sure. No problem. So I rise to my knees so you can hold it steady while I sit down on it. Oh, by the way, I didn’t mention a condom because in my head we’re not using one. I know I probably should imagine a condom, but . . . .”

“Oh my God! This is a fantasy, not a sex ed class!”

“But we always use a condom, which, by the way, I’m really glad about because, well, I have this fear of venereal disease. I saw this picture on Wikipedia once of this guy who had boils all over his . . .”

“I’m hanging up in five seconds if you don't stop talking about herpes.”

“Oh, sorry! Yeah, herpes isn’t very sexy, is it . . . ?”

“Click.”

“No wait! Don’t hang up. I’m going to do this, Brian . . . Brian? Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m still here, but not for much longer.”

“Good, thanks. Uhm, where was I?”

“You were sitting down on my cock, impaling yourself so deep that you can taste my pre-come on the back of your tongue.”

“Right, that’s it. Okay, I’m sitting on your . . . on your cock and you put your hands on my ass and start encouraging me to ride it, so I do. It’s really big, and it hurts a little, but I’m starting to like that. Remember you said the pain was part of it? Well, you’re right. I love the way your . . . your cock opens me up. I want as much of it as possible because it feels so good. I’m really hard, and you’re thrusting upward . . .”

“Fuck,” he says. “There you go. Keep it up.”

“. . . and I’m pushing back down because I want your . . . your cock so much. Oh, I forgot to mention there’s lots of lube. I love lots of lube. It’s all squishy . . . Opps, that’s probably not very sexy, is it?”

“Actually it is,” he says a little breathlessly.

“Okay, great . . . uhm, so there’s a lot of lube so your . . . your cock is really slippery and easy to ride. You’re really turned on, and I think you might come soon . . .”

“It’s a little early for me to come, don’t you think?”

“Brian, this is my fantasy.”

He laughs. “Go on.”

“Your chest is getting all pink. It’s like your whole body is blushing, and it’s so hot because I know it’s me that’s making it happen. I lean forward and kiss you. Your tongue fills my mouth and tastes like ice cream. I can’t get enough of it. You taste so good. Your tongue always tastes good, which is pretty surprising actually given how much you smoke . . .”

“Wow.”

“Sorry, anyway, we’re kissing, and you’re fucking me. It feels so good that I know I’m going to come without having to jerk off. I know that’s possible because you’ve made yourself come without jerking off, which is really hot by the way. Your . . . your cock gets really, really hard, and I love the way you thrust like you’re inside me and make your . . . your cock bounce against your stomach. It’s really really hot. You come really hard, by the way. How can you always have so much come given you come, like, a hundred times a day? I’m super jealous. Is there a trick you can teach me, like, I don’t know, eating a lot of yogurt or something?”

Silence. I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. I’m so nervous that I’m not hard, which is probably not conducive to good phone sex. Time to think of something really, truly crazy hot.

“I’m going to switch gears now, okay?” I say and don’t wait for a reply – assuming I’d even get one. “So we’re on the floor now, and you’re on your knees with your front resting on the couch. I get a couple pillows because the floor’s really hard, and I don’t want our knees to start hurting. After that I get behind you and sit down so my face is level with your ass. I spread you open and then start licking you like you do to me . . .”

“Licking what? Say it.”

“Well, you know. I’m licking your sphincter . . .”

“Wrong word. My ass is not part of an anatomy textbook. My asshole, you’re licking my asshole. Go on.”

“Okay, I’m licking your asshole and trying to get my tongue inside. You’re really tight, but I keep trying because . . . because . . .”

“Because why? You want to taste me?”

“Yeah, I do. I really really do, which is why I wish you’d let me do this in real life. It’s really hot, and every time I imagine it, I almost come in my pants.”

“Are you finally hard?”

Huh? How does he know I wasn’t? He’s like sex clairvoyant or something.

“Yeah, I’m hard. I always get hard when I think about rimming you. I want to make you squirm like you make me. I’m still trying to get my tongue inside you, and finally you open up a little bit. I can tell it feels really good because you make that gorgeous sound you make. You’re thrusting against the couch, so all I have to do is stay still while you fuck yourself on my tongue . . .”

“Put your finger in,” he says, his voice low and gravelly.

Yay!! It’s working! I’m turning him on! Yay! Go me!

“Did you put your finger in?”

“Yeah, I push it into you. It slides right in because of all the spit and you’re open. I start pulling it out and pushing it back in really slowly, which makes you make that sound again. When I find that spot that makes your whole body shudder, I press against it a few times until I can tell that you can’t take it anymore and need to come. I pull my finger out and you move to sit on the couch and spread your legs so I can get between them. You start jerking off while I suck on your balls, which is hard because they’re pretty tight up against your body. I lick between them, and press my tongue as firmly as I can, so your balls separate as far as they can. It’s super hot because the skin is so tight. You beg me to put one in my mouth, so I do and then the other one, rolling each around with my tongue. The whole time you’re jerking off with just the head of your . . . your cock in your hand, letting it slide in and out of your fist. You’re really close to shooting your load. I pull back so I can cup your balls in one hand and stick a finger in your ass with my other . . .”

He groans and murmurs “oh, God, fuck,” several times under his breath.

I’m elated! I’m going to get him off! It’s going to happen! I can’t believe it!

“I need to fuck you,” he says. There’s urgency in his voice. “Christ, Justin, I need to fuck you.”

I go a little lightheaded for a moment because HOLY SHIT!

“Okay. We stand up and go to the arm of the couch so I can bend over it. You move behind me and shove your cock . . .”

Holy shit! I said it!

“. . . in my ass really hard and then start thrusting really fast.”

“What does it feel like? What does it feel like with my cock inside you?”

“It feels . . . God, it’s hard to describe. It feels like it’s both too much and not enough. It feels like I can’t possibly come hard enough to make my need for your cock go away. It makes me feel insatiable, but at the same time, it hurts a little bit. Your cock is really big, and it feels like I can’t take it all . . .”

“. . . but you do. You take everything I give you and more . . .”

“It feels like my balls are going to explode, but I don’t want to come yet. I want you to fuck me forever. I want you to fuck me till I pass out . . . oh fuck! . . . Brian, I can’t take this anymore . . .”

“Make yourself come,” he groans. “I want to hear you come from my cock inside you.”

That’s all the permission I need. I balance the phone on my shoulder with my chin and reach down to open my fly. My fingers are fumbling, so it seems to take forever, but finally my dick is free and I’m pumping it like there’s no tomorrow. I can’t talk any longer, but I make sure Brian can hear me making myself come. I say his name over and over, and just the sound of it drives me closer toward release. When I finally come, all I can do is choke out a whimper, and when it’s over, I see spots dance before my eyes. Just a second later I hear Brian grunt three times and then let out a long, pained-sounding moan. He just came. I know he did. There’s no way you can fake sounds like that.

“Holy shit,” he says when he catches his breath. “I just creamed my pants, Sunshine. There’s so much come, I’m not sure my briefs can handle it after all. Good job. Not bad for your first attempt.”

I close my eyes as my head lulls against the back of the chair. I’d just felt my dick start to swell again. Just the mere thought of Brian rubbing himself to orgasm through his pants is making me hard. I’m going to be jerking off to the image for the rest of the day!

Brian chuckles. He must’ve read my mind again.

“Leave your dick alone,” he says. “I’m rescheduling my meeting with Bob and Brad and coming home to fuck your brains out. I want to walk through the door and find you already naked and in bed on your elbows and knees with your ass in the air. I don’t want to have to do anything more than push my pants down. Got it?”

I grin. “Got it.”

And I definitely do, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still make myself come while the memory of our conversation is still fresh and running like a repeating cassette tape in my head.

Thank God, I’m eighteen with a recovery time of less than a nanosecond.


	10. Rimming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian teaches Justin the art of rimming.

RIMMING

“So,” Brian says. “What do you want to do?”

He’s got his arms wrapped around me, walking me backward towards the bed. By now I’ve figured out that he doesn’t mean “what do you want to do” as in actually do, like as in go to the diner or Woody’s or Babylon. What he means is: what do you want to do in bed?

It seems like a simple question that I should be able to answer without having to think too much about it – especially since if you can name it, I’ll do it. I’ve let him do all kinds of things and never once regretted it, although some things I like better than others. But when he actually asks, I’m too afraid to answer him honestly because the one thing I really really want is not even on the menu.

I want his asshole.

There I said it (though not to him, of course). I want to see what it looks like, what it tastes like, what he’ll do when I touch it. I want it so badly it brings back that English class in which we discussed “The Great Gatsby.” The teacher had asked what “yearning” means and I answered that it was “wanting something really badly, so bad that it hurts.” Well, if that’s the correct definition (and Mr. Horner said it was), then it’s true to say I “yearn” for Brian’s asshole.

But Brian doesn’t seem to want to share that part of his anatomy, which is weird ‘coz he does all kinds of things to my asshole that feel fucking amazing. There’s a little thing up in there that, when he touches it, makes my eyes roll back in my head and my dick leak all over the place. So what’s not to like? If he knows it’ll make me feel good, then he must know it would make him feel good too. It makes no sense. What’s the big deal? He likes my asshole; why wouldn’t I like his?

“Don’t you dare touch my asshole,” he said the second night we fucked despite the fact he'd said "go to it" just forty-eight hours ago. I was sucking his dick (no doubt inexpertly) and reached a finger back behind his balls. I was so close, but then he sat up, grabbed my hand and pulled it out from between his thighs. I wanted to ask him why, but back then I’d been too afraid.

Maybe, just maybe, I could find the courage now. After all, he asked me what I want, and I want his asshole. I only need to figure out how to broach the subject . . .

I collapse on the bed, and he grips my wrists and pins my hands above my head.

“I’m waiting,” he says.

His eyes are full of pupil, which I learned on the internet when I Googled “male sexual response” means he’s aroused. Same goes for his flushed chest. He’s horny, which means he’s also impatient. We’re staring at each other. He must see something in my expression that makes him wary because he narrows his eyes and repeats himself.

“I’m waiting.”

Come on, I admonish myself. What’s the worst he can do? He certainly won’t throw me out; he’s too far gone for that. The worst that can happen is he’ll snap at me and roll me over. And that’s hardly punishment.

“Uhm,” I say.

He arches his eyebrows.

“Uhm?”

I clear my throat. “Uhm, well, I kinda wanted, if it’s okay, I mean, I kinda wanted to do something . . .”

His expression changes from mere impatience to amused impatience.

“Well, spit it out,” he says.

I take a deep deep breath. “Uhm, I want to, I mean if it’s okay, I want to, uhm, you know.”

He laughs.

“Actually, I don’t know. I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, but whatever it is, hurry the fuck up or the invitation’s off the table.”

I wince. “Iwannarimyou,” I say in a rush of breath.

He looks genuinely puzzled. “You want to what? Sunshine, I didn’t understand whatever the fuck it was you just said.”

I groan with frustration. Shit. I was going to have to say it again.

“I said . . . I said I want to, uhm, rim you.”

Silence. Just pure silence. Where are the crickets when you need them?

“You want to rim me,” he repeats in a flat, disbelieving voice. “I thought I told you . . .”

“You did, but that was ages ago; I thought that maybe you might’ve changed . . .”

“My mind?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

He releases my wrists and sits up, still straddling my hips. I quickly glance at his cock to make sure it’s still hard. It is.

“You don’t even know how to rim,” he says.

“I can do what you do to me,” I say hopefully. He hasn’t given me a flat-out no. “How hard can it be?”

He does that annoying thing where he barks out a little sarcastic laugh and then lets his expression go emotionless again.

“How hard can it be?” he asks disbelievingly. “I’ve spent years perfecting my technique.”

I sigh. He may not be losing his hard-on, but I’m losing mine. I resort to begging.

“Please, Brian, come on. What’s the big deal?”

“The ‘big deal’ is that I’m the only one to touch my asshole. That’s the ‘big deal.’”

I frown up at him. “You mean you rim yourself?”

That does the trick. He starts laughing, and it’s a real laugh this time. I give him my brightest, sunshiniest smile.

“Fuck,” he says and runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck. Wouldn’t you rather have me rim you?”

I shake my head emphatically.

He closes his eyes and sighs in sweet, merciful defeat. I smile even wider. I will not disappoint him.

Without another word, he dismounts and positions himself front-down on the bed. I stare at his back and its flawless skin, every well-defined muscle. There’s something about seeing him this way, lying on his stomach with his face buried in his pillow – something that makes me . . . I don’t know. It’s impossible to describe. It’s just that he seems even more naked this way, if that makes sense, which I’m sure it doesn’t.

I trace his spine with a finger, pausing at the tailbone. This is the moment when I should be able to position myself between his legs, but he hasn’t spread them. Shit. Is he going to make me pry them apart like the shell of a particularly stubborn oyster, because wow. That would be fucking awkward as hell.

I crawl down to the end of the bed and place my hands on the backs of his thighs, and he immediately clenches his ass cheeks. I roll my eyes. It’s like I’m dealing with a bashful virgin and not Brian Kinney, of all people. I try to spread his legs, and eventually he surrenders. I quickly move between them before he can close them again and lie down.

My face is mere inches from the crack of his ass.

I start to sweat. I don’t want to fuck up. If I do, there might never be a second chance. Christ, I feel like a fucking archeologist looking for a rare, one-of-a-kind fossil. My hands are shaking. He must feel them because he laughs into his pillow, which I consider to be a good sign. I position my hands so that my thumbs can spread him open . . .

. . . and there it is. The focus of all my curiosity and desire. It’s impossibly cute – small and puckered and, dare I say, shy? I almost say it: “Brian, your asshole is adorable,” but figure that’s probably a very bad idea. I’m pretty sure “adorable” is not an adjective he would like applied to any part of his body, let alone his asshole.

“Will you stop fucking staring?” he snaps.

Right. That’s a good idea, but what should I do? Now that I’m here, the next step isn’t obvious. Do I try to pry it open? It dosen’t look like it would appreciate it at all. I decide to proceed cautiously and just blow on it. It gets even smaller.

“Jesus Christ,” he says. “You don’t fucking blow on it till you’ve got it wet. Blowing on it dry is pointless and weird.”

I bite my cheek to keep from laughing. He has no idea how inadvertently hilarious he can be. Okay, good. Now I have something of a roadmap. I make my tongue as pointy as I can and tentatively poke it at the almost-invisible hole.

Brian jumps out of his skin.

“Goddamn it, Justin,” he yells. “Just stick your whole face in there and fucking lick. Think lollypop or ice cream cone. It’s not that difficult, for Christ sake!”

Fine. He asked for it.

I quickly spread his cheeks as far as I can and bury my face between them. Forget the poking and gentle licking, I fucking slobber all over him until there’s spit covering his balls. He lets out a ragged groan and grinds his ass against my face. It’s a miracle I’m not suffocating. He’s open now; I can get my tongue inside.

“Fuck,” he groans into his pillow.

I can’t get my tongue as deep as I want to. After all it’s not a finger. Damn it! Why can’t my tongue have a bone in it?

“Bite me,” he demands from somewhere up above me. “It’s called eating ass for a reason.”

I do my best to get my mouth where it needs to go; it takes a minute, but thank God he doesn’t seem to mind. When I finally get my teeth where they need to go, I nibble gently. I’m pretty sure when Brian said “bite me” that he wasn’t being literal. Nibbling seems like a much more pleasurable experience . . .

. . . and apparently it is because Brian Kinney loses his fucking mind. His whole body convulses, and the sounds he’s making are completely undignified.

“Holy fuck,” he gasps. “Jesus Christ. Fuck fuck fuck!”

He reaches back blindly and grabs one of my wrists. “Finger,” he says. “Use your fucking finger! Put it in me!”

It’s awkward because I can’t fuck him with my finger and still keep his ass spread, but the problem’s solved when he reaches back with both hands and opens himself wider than even I’d been able to. I draw back for a second to catch my breath and wet a finger in my mouth . . . God, there it is again except now it’s swollen and shiny with spit. Every now and then, it pulses open, and each time, he groans helplessly.

I’m going to come.

“Don’t you dare,” he says. “You’re not coming until I do. There’s no way I’ll let you continue if you’re not horny as hell.”

He chuckles when I whimper and then says “finger!” again as though he’s yelling at a bar tender for another beer. I don’t hesitate to comply . . .

. . . God, now I know why he can’t keep his fingers out of my ass. He’s so slick and hot on the inside, and so smooth. I start fingering him slowly, pulling almost all the way out and then slowly slipping it back in as deep as I can go. The pace must be too slow because Brian starts pushing back against my hand, showing me how he wants me to do it. Instead of almost letting my finger slip free, he forces me to fuck him deeply.

“That bump,” he says, panting for breath. “Press against it.”

It takes a couple seconds, but at last I find it. I know because his whole body jerks and he cries out, his voice breaking.

“Stop,” he gasps. “Stop. I’m going to roll over and you’re going to suck my cock and fuck me while you do it.”

Okay. Nothing like being direct. No one can accuse Brian of not expressing himself when the situation demands it. He rolls onto his back and places his hand on the back of my head. I take a deep breath because I know what comes next.

“Take it,” he groans. “Swallow every inch; I’m going to come down your throat.”

And that’s all the warning I get before he pushes my head down.

The first time he’d done it it scared the shit out of me. I thought I’d choke. But now I’m used to it – more than used to it, actually. I fucking crave it. I crave the way it makes me master of his body, forcing him to surrender to what nature – or God if you believe in Him – designed.

“Fuck me,” he begs. “Jesus, I need you to fuck me.”

So I do. I fuck him as deep as I can, making sure my fingertip never strays from that magic bump. He makes a sound that might be a sob. Too soon his back is arching off the bed and his come is pulsing down my throat. At the same time, I feel his asshole clench my finger and spasm in time with his spurts.

“Finger out!” he barks as soon as his body stops shuddering. “Now.”

I’d laugh except I need him to make me come. He’d probably punish me by making me jerk-off, and I don’t want that. I want him to suck me the way I’d sucked him, and, yes, I want his finger inside me rubbing and rubbing and . . .

“Roll over and spread your legs,” he commands.

I’ve barely been in his mouth for a second before I explode. He groans around my dick. My eyes are still squeezed shut when he releases me and sits up. When I can finally open them and focus on his face, I can see that he’s wearing a serious, solemn expression.

“Don’t grow to expect that,” he says.

I sigh. Was I that bad at it?

“But why not?” I don’t bother to disguise the frustration in my voice.

He stares down at me for a long, long time. I can tell he’s struggling with whether or not to say something, and if he decides to say it, whether he’ll say it kindly or cruelly.

“It . . .” He pauses and runs his fingers through his hair. He’s not looking at me when he continues. “It . . . It’s too much which makes nothing enough. Even coming doesn’t make the feeling go away. I like it too much, and I don’t want to be . . . I don’t want to be . . .”

I think I know what he’s going to say and decide not to force him to say it. He doesn’t want to be “a bottom.” For some reason I don’t yet understand, the idea rocks his world and not in a good way.

“Got it,” I say and smile up at him.

He breaks into his own smile – a smile of relief.

“But you have to tell me,” I say. “How was I?”

He blushes – he actually blushes.

“You were alright,” he says and that’s it. That’s all I’m going to get, and considering where we went together night, it’s enough.


	11. Snowballing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian teaches Justin the art of snowballing.

It’s cold out, but not so cold that it’s going to snow, so I’m perplexed when Brian starts talking about “snowballing.” Does it involve rubbing an ice cube on one’s balls? – We’ve already done the ice cube thing, though, and Brian spent much more time playing with my nipples than any other part of me. Maybe “snowballing” has something to do with Snow Cones. You know, those paper cones full of crushed ice soaked with sugary syrup? I used to love them. The only problem was that sometimes the syrup ran out before the ice did, which sucks because . . . oh, yeah, right. Brian is probably not talking about a frozen summer treat.

He’s got an eyebrow arched and an impish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, which means that whatever “snowballing” is, it’s bound to be nasty, nasty nasty. I’ve seen that look before. He’s got something planned that he knows will gross me out before it turns me on. Hhhhmmmmm. What’s it going to be? I feel like a kid on Christmas morning who’s just discovered a mound of shiny presents under the tree.

I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s pleased with me and my sense of adventure and curiosity. I can tell it’s one of the things he likes about me and one of the reasons he keeps inviting me over. Unsurprisingly, he has a very dirty mind filled to the brim with dirty thoughts, and I am his eager pupil.

He’s sitting on one of the dining table chairs with his legs spread wide. All he’s wearing is a worn pair of jeans, and I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know he’s probably going commando. As I watch, mesmerized, he opens his fly and slips his hand inside. He’s touching himself; well, not like that’s anything new – he’s always touching himself when he’s not having me do it – but it seems so deliberate, so calculated to make me start drooling like the neighbor’s Great Dane.

Ah, so whatever “snowballing” is, it involves cock sucking. Well, okay then – let’s get to it!

I pull my long-sleeve tee off, getting momently stuck with one arm out and my nose caught on the collar. Shit. I haven’t yet perfected the art of removing my shirt in the same sexy way that he does. He laughs, but it’s not mocking. He must’ve been smoking weed before I got here because he’s pretty mellow tonight. I like him this way. He’s less intimidating.

He stands up and points at the chair.

“Take off your jeans and sit down,” he says.

Yay!!! Yay!! He’s going to suck me off! Jackpot! Yay!! I love it when he sucks me off! He’s so porn-star about it – slurping and sucking and moaning so loudly that it’s possible the people who live downstairs can hear him. Score!! I’m tempted to do a victory lap around the loft but figure that might be taking things a bit too far.

“Ah, very enthusiastic,” he says when I kick off my underwear so energetically that they end up in the fruit bowl on top of the kitchen island. “I like that. Now c’mere. Plop your ass down and scooch up to the edge of the seat.”

Scooch. It’s one of those words he uses now and then that makes me think he’s not as badass as he seems. I’m pretty sure Marlon Brando never used the word “scooch.”

As soon as I’m “scooched” up on the edge of the chair, butt naked and ready to go, he insinuates himself between my legs and kneels down with sexy, languid grace, eye-fucking me the entire time. Christ on a Ritz cracker; he is so fucking gorgeous! No wonder my sheets at Deb’s are like cardboard – I can’t stop jerking off over memories of moments like this.

He sits back on his heels and looks up at me, a smile playing on that beautiful mouth.

“I’m going to snowball you,” he says. “And then you’ll have the privilege of returning the favor.”

“Uhm,” I say, acutely aware of the fact my dick keeps twitching like it’s got a mind of its own – which, come to think of it, it probably does. That would explain a lot. “I still don’t know what ‘snowballing’ is.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll demonstrate. Pay close attention because when you do it to me, I want you to do it right.”

No pressure or anything.

He traces the underside of my cock with a slow, wet, warm lick, watching me the whole time, his eyes laughing at me – he knows I can come like this. I’m that pathetic.

“Brian,” I plead in a whisper. He’s going to play with me; he’s going to make me absolutely crazy; he’s going to keep me on the brink and hold me there, taking pleasure in my discomfort. In other words, he’s a sadistic bastard, and I’m going to love every minute of it.

But to my surprise, he doesn’t tease me. After just on lick, he swallows my dick so suddenly and unexpectedly that I actually yelp with surprise. Then, before I can get my bearings and gather my wits, he is sucking and swallowing, one hand holding the base of my dick and the other cupping my balls and rolling them between his fingers.

What the fuck? I’m going last, like, thirty seconds, and he knows it. Damn him! It’s like being given one of those stupid Easter bunnies that’s hollow on the inside. There you are thinking it’s solid chocolate, but then no. It’s fucking hollow, and you feel totally gypped.

Well, fuck. This blowjob is going to be a hollow chocolate Easter bunny.

I come so fast that I don’t even realize I’m about to come before it’s already over. I want to cry. What a waste!

He sits back on his heels and looks at me. I’m waiting for him to say something shitty, but he doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. He merely stands up and walks behind the chair.

“Uhm, Bri . . . ?”

But I don’t get the question out because the next thing I know, he’s tugging on my hair and pulling my head back. Ah, this must be part of the whole “snowballing” thing. He’s silent, which is weird. Usually when he’s teaching me something new, he’s lecturing like a Sex 101 professor. But not now.

He’s above me looking down into my face and then lowers his head, positioning it to the side for just the right angle for a mind blowing kiss . . . I open my mouth . . .

. . . and then I get it. He kisses me and come fills my mouth. My come. He swirls it around with his tongue, preventing me from either swallowing or spitting. My first thought is UGH! I don’t want my own come in my mouth! But then my perspective shifts . . . this isn’t about me. This is about him. He gets to suck me off and then feed me my own come. It’s . . . it’s really kind of . . . disturbing. It’s an act of domination. First I’m going to force you to come, and then I’m going to force you to swallow it . . .

. . . Finally, he pulls away, and I’m finally free to spit or swallow. I decide to swallow. I’m pretty sure spitting out a “snowball” is not proper sexual etiquette. He lets go of my hair so I can lift my head.

“That,” he says when he comes around to stand in front of me. “Is ‘snowballing.’”

“Uhm,” I say. “I . . . I’m not sure I get the appeal. It’s kind of disgusting.”

He bites back a gleeful smile as though he knew what I was going to say before I said it.

“Ah,” he says. “But here’s the thing . . . now you get to do it to me.”

And that’s when it hits me. Holy shit! I’m going to be sucking the come out of him and then forcing him to swallow it.

My bones go kind of noodly, and I’m glad I’m sitting down. Oh my fucking God in heaven!

He grins at me as he watches the coin drop. “Still think it’s disgusting?” he asks. “Here, stand up and let’s switch places.”

I can’t believe he’s actually going to let me do this. It seems so . . . so unlike him. It almost seems like I’ll be topping him in a way. There’s a shift in power involved that I never would’ve thought he’d be okay with.

He gives me a hand and helps me up. I watch him push his jeans off and kick them aside. He then sits down and spreads his legs.

“An important part of snowballing is making the person who’s getting snowballed come as quickly as possible,” he says. “You’re quite good for a novice, but not good enough to get a pro like me off as quickly as you need to, so here’s what I want you to do. First, kneel down between my legs.”

Okay, I think. I’ve got that part. Nothing new there.

“Now, you’re not going to swallow when I shoot because obviously that fucks up the whole thing. I can deep-throat and still stop myself from swallowing, but you won’t be able to. Not a criticism, just a fact. So, here’s what you need to do – just suck on the head of my cock, just the head, no more – while I make myself come.”

I look at him quizzically.

He holds up his hand, and that’s when I see that he’s holding something that looks like a short rod with a red button on one end. A thin cord is attached to the rod and to something between his legs on the other.

“Electro-stym,” he says as though I know what the hell that means. “I’ll teach you all about it later, but let’s stick to one lesson tonight.”

I eye the whole thing warily. It looks unsafe.

“I’ve got something up my ass with the unimaginative name of an ‘anal probe,’” he says. “When I press this button, I get a nice vibrating pulse – it’s a pulse, not a shock – right against my prostate. Between you sucking on the head of my cock and this baby . . .” he holds up the rod with the button “. . . I’m going to come my fucking brains out in a nanosecond. Whereupon, you’re going to hold my come in your mouth and do to me exactly what I did to you as quickly as possible – it’s all about the shock value. Got it?”

“I think so,” I say. “I’ll try.”

“There is no ‘try,’ only ‘do,’” he says in his Yoda voice because he really is a geek no matter how much he protests to the contrary.

“Alright, enough talking,” he says. “Get your mouth doing something more useful.”

I close my mouth around the head of his dick and start sucking. It always surprises me how hot it is, all that blood so close to the surface of his skin.

“Suck like you’re going to suck all my come right out of my balls,” he says. “Think straw.”

Why is that analogy so fucking sexy?

I follow his directions and suddenly feel his body jolt, which is followed closely by the taste of pre-come. He groans, and I feel his body jolt again, just a quick, sharp upward thrust of his hips. The next thing I know his come is flooding my mouth.

“Quickly!” he gasps.

I stand up as fast as possible and move around to the back of the chair. Now what? Right. I take a fist full of his hair and yank his head back. I can’t believe he’s letting me be so forceful with him!

“Hurry up,” he commands.

I position myself so I can kiss him as deeply and thoroughly as possible, and when I do I spit the mouthful of come into his mouth. He moans and kisses me back, his back arching away from the back of the chair. There’s still some come in my mouth, so I force it into his with my tongue . . .

As Deb would say – Jesus fucking Christ! There’s no way he can escape. He’s completely at my mercy as I force feed him his own come! The come I’d just sucked out of him! God, it’s so fucking hot! I suddenly feel slightly faint and only belatedly realize it’s not because I’m going to die from the hotness, it’s because I can’t breathe. I pull my mouth away from his, and watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“Okay,” he gasps. “You can let go of my hair any day now.”

Oh, right. Forgot about that.

I open my fist and help him lift his head like he’d done for me. His face is red, but he’s grinning.

“Can I assume you enjoyed that?” he says. He must see the stunned, God-struck look on my face. “Sometimes it’s not about what the other person does to you, it’s about what you do to them that turns you on. Speaking of which,” he nods at my dick. “You look like you would appreciate a proper blowjob.”

No truer words were ever spoken. But what about . . . ?

“Are you going to unplug yourself?” I ask.

He cracks up. “I’ve never heard it put quite like that, but yeah. I’ll bite your cock off if I press the button by accident.”

I shudder. Now that was a very unsexy thought.

I watch as he pulls the probe out of his ass. Duh! Of course, I do! I’m surprised by how thin it is – it’s a wand, not a plug.

“Can I try it?” I ask eagerly. But he shakes his head.

“Later,” he says. “Tonight it’s all about the snowballing. One thing at a time.”

All about the snowballing, I think. Is he implying that we’ll do it again because if so, I’m all over that with ketchup, mustard and relish. We’ve done some hot things, but he’s never let me be rough with him before. He’s never let himself be dominated. Does he let his tricks do that to him? For some reason, I doubt it. It’s impossible to imagine.

So, am I the first one??? If so, then holy fucking shit!

He’s just about to go down on me, but he pauses as though he’s read my mind and looks up at my face, into my eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. His eyes say everything I need to know . . .

I trusted you, Justin. I’ve never trusted anyone else enough before.


	12. Sounding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian teaches Justin the art of urethral sounding.

SOUNDING

Every time I walk into Woody’s I feel like I’m going to puke. Either Brian won’t be there, and I’ll be crushed with a disappointment so intense it makes me nauseous, or he will be there, and I’ll be terrified to the point of nausea that he’ll ignore me – or worse. Daph tells me it’s because I’m in love. If someone had warned me that falling in love would make me want to barf, I might’ve stayed home That Night.

Yeah, right.

He’s here tonight. When I walk in, he signals for me to join him, Michael, Emmett and Ted at the bar. He looks happy and relaxed; I can tell by the way his body moves – generous and careless – sitting on a bar stool with legs spread and an arm slung over Michael’s shoulders. When I’m close enough, he grabs the front of my shirt and tugs me into a kiss. When he pushes me away again, I know that I’m grinning like a moron. He’s not drunk or high (yet). This is the first time he’s ever kissed me in public when he’s completely sober. It’s A Huge Big Deal. He smirks at me as though he knows what I’m thinking – he probably does.

“So, Bri,” says Ted. “You gonna show Justin your new toys?” He nods at a long, thin wooden box sitting on the bar. It looks like the kind of box you store paint brushes in.

“No, he is not going to show Justin his new toys,” Michael says. He crosses his arms and glares at Ted. “Boy Wonder is too young for stuff like that.”

“I’m not too young,” I protest. I hate it when Michael acts like a conscience; sometimes Brian actually listens to him.

“Trust me, honey,” Emmett says, putting an arm around my shoulders, “you really are too young. I didn’t see my first sound until I was old enough to drink and even then I almost fainted.”

I snatch Brian’s beer and take what I hope looks like a manly swig. Brian frowns at me, and I return his bottle. “I’m old enough to drink,” I say, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. Brian’s frown turns into a scrunch of disgust. “See, I just drank.”

“Legally,” Emmett says by way of clarification.

Michael clears his throat like a school teacher trying to get the attention of his class. “Brian, go put those in the Jeep. They must’ve cost a fortune. Someone might steal them.”

Brian snorts. “Not likely. I had ‘Brian Kinney’ stenciled in gold on the inside lid.”

Emmett laughs, and Ted raises his beer in a gesture of admiration.

“Well, then you’ll lose track of them when you get drunk.” Michael is still bravely fighting his futile battle with Brian’s id.

“I’m not going to get drunk.”

They all look at him with raised eyebrows.

“I don’t sound when I’ve been drinking . . . and don’t you assholes do it either. You’ll puncture your bladders, and I’ll have to slap you. Hard.”

Ted shudders. “You don’t have to worry about me. I don’t want to cock-stuff drunk or sober.”

By this time, I’m dying with curiosity. “Come on,” I wheedle. “What’s in the box?”

Emmett puts both hands on my shoulders and attempts to steer me toward the door. “It’s a school night,” he says. “Time to go home and study.”

“I already did my homework before I came here.”

“Then it’s time for a deep cleansing facial.”

“I don’t do facials.”

Brian laughs and lifts Emmett’s hands off my shoulders. “Now, don’t try to impede the child’s thirst for knowledge.” He grins at me, and my heart turns over.

“No, no, no,” Michael says emphatically.

Ted nods. “I have to agree. I think he’s done enough experimenting for the time being. Let him get used to something benign and unthreatening before you . . .”

Brian gives him one of his contemptuous expressions – for once I’m not the target. It feels like a victory.

“Hello,” he says. “Who’s the expert here? He doesn’t even know what sounding is, let alone be able to consent to it . . .”

“Which means you’re not taking him home,” Michael says with his unique brand of puppy-dog hope.

Brian gives him a mischievous smile. “I didn’t say I can’t consent.” He kisses Michael on the forehead, and grabs the box with one hand and my sleeve with the other. Michael is still yelling after us – something about “this not ending well” – when the door closes behind us.

Brian is grinning as we walk to the Jeep. We get in, and he carefully places the box on the backseat. “You know what’s hilarious,” he says, starting the engine. “It hadn’t occurred to me to do this with you until the boys started flipping out. I was just going to go home and do it by myself.”

“Do what?” I ask, trying to keep the trepidation out of my voice. As curious as I am, I’m still a little afraid – scratch that – a lot afraid of Brian. He’s moody and unpredictable. One second he can be playful, the next cruel. And he’s an adult. I don’t have much experience hanging around with adults. The only adults I’ve spent any real time with (as opposed to teachers at school) are my parents and relatives and my parents’ friends. The interactions always go pretty much the same:

How’s school going, Justin? So, you’re a senior, huh? Gosh, I can remember when you were just in kindergarten. Time sure has flown by, hasn’t it?.

What are your plans for the summer? My son/daughter is going to be a counselor at Camp Whompagogganog. It sounds like it’s going to be a lot of fun – more fun than working at the Country Club.

Are you still drawing those adorable . . . what are they called again? ‘Pokemeon’ was it?

So, have you been thinking about which colleges you’ll be applying for. My son/daughter is looking at Harvard, but I’m not sure he'll/she’ll be as challenged there as at Yale. Pity Yale is located in a crime-infested ghetto . . .

My, how you’ve grown! How do your parents afford to keep you clothed?

Or my very favorite . . .

So, do you have a girlfriend, Justin? You’re certainly a catch – so cute and smart and talented. Girls should be falling all over you.

Like my parents’ friends and relatives, Brian is definitely an Adult with a capital “A,” but he’s an Adult whose every other word is a profanity. He can be condescending as hell, but he doesn’t treat me like a child – if that even makes sense. And he does Adult things like wear suits and work at a company and own an apartment. He’s already been to – and graduated from – college. He has money and his own car. He bosses people around and never feigns interest if he’s “bored out of his fucking mind.” He’s unapologetic and easily annoyed . . .

. . . but the thing that’s most scarily Adult about him is his jaded worldliness. He pops pills, smokes pot, snorts coke and drinks the kind of liquor my dad keeps in a locked cabinet. He’s completely unashamed about anything – even the huge boners he seems to get every five minutes. He just strolls around the loft, munching a snack or listening to phone messages, with a giant throbbing hard-on so stiff it points up. He’s exceedingly proud of the fact that he can hang multiple towels on his cock, and he loves to casually push it down and let it snap back up. Most amazingly, he’ll stroke himself when we’re watching T.V. or talking on the phone about work shit. It seems as automatic for him as breathing.

I can never in a million years imagine I’ll ever be like that.

“They’re called ‘sounds.’”

We’re sitting on his bed with our clothes still on, looking at an array of blue-tinted steel rods of some kind. Each is nestled in its own velvet-lined slot inside the box.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Pick one up.”

It’s cool in my hand and smoother than smooth. He flicks it gently with his finger, and it vibrates with a low hum.

“That’s why I decided to get rid of my old set,” he says. “Had less vibration, and more vibration is a good thing – a very good thing. So, Sunshine, go ahead; make a guess.”

Goddamn it. He loves putting me on the spot. I blush.

“Uhm, I don’t know. You, uhm, put them in your ass?”

He rolls his eyes, but his mischievous smile doesn’t fade. “Remember how my cock fills you up and leaves you begging for more?”

I blush again; I can’t help it. He talks so . . . frankly about things.

“Think one slim rod could meet your needs? No, you don’t stick these guys in your ass; you stick them in your cock.”

Oh. My. Fucking. God. I can’t help it; I grab my crotch and cringe. Why? Yes, I get the dildos and, now that he’s used one on me, cock rings, but putting a long steel rod – the biggest of which is almost a foot-long and has the width of two pencils – in your dick simply CANNOT feel good.

He grins when he sees my reaction. “Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” he says.

I desperately don’t want to say what I know I must say, but I do anyway . . .

“Brian, I don’t want to do it . . . I’m sorry, it’s just . . . your friends were right; I’m not ready for something like this. I know you think I’m being a girl, and you’ll probably kick me out and never want to see me again. But I don’t want to do this.”

I expect him to turn dark and mean like he sometimes does and mock me for being a “scared little faggot,” but he doesn’t. Instead his expression opens up into one of his rare uncomplicated smiles.

“Good for you, Sunshine.” There isn’t even a hint of disdain in his voice; in fact he sounds pleased and proud. “Never let anyone pressure you into doing something you don’t want to do. Including me.” He reaches out and cups my cheek, gently pulling me forward until he’s kissing me.

His face is flushed when he leans back again. He unbuttons his shirt and plays with first one nipple and then the other, tugging them and rolling them between his fingertips. He’s looking at me with That Look. I start taking off my shirt, but he stops me.

“Don’t get undressed,” he says. “I’m giving you the control tonight.”

I look at him perplexed. Ninety-nine percent of the time I spend alone with Brian, I’m naked. He just smiles at me and shrugs his shirt off his shoulders. Then he unbuckles his belt. As always, I feel light-headed and impossibly turned-on. He takes off both his jeans and his underwear. I’m surprised when I see that his cock is only partially hard. He looks amused. My surprise must be written all over my face.

“Jerked off in the bathroom,” he says. “You shouldn’t have a raging hard-on when you start sounding. Your urethra is too constricted when you’ve got a boner.”

Oh. Oh!

“You’re going to do it to yourself,” I say. “Holy shit! Won’t it hurt?”

“First of all, the answer for me is no, it doesn’t hurt. I’ve been doing it for years. Second, I’m not going to do it to myself. You’re going to have the honor.”

That seems like a very very bad idea. I shake my head. “I don’t know how,” I say. “I’ll end up hurting you.”

“If it starts to hurt in a bad way, I’ll let you know immediately. Come on, you’ll be good at this. Artists have steady hands.”

It’s true. I do have steady hands.

“You promise you’ll make me stop?” I say pleadingly.

“I promise,” he says softly, soothingly, and props himself up with his pillow.

I nod and gingerly pick up the smallest of the rods. Brain laughs.

“I can take all of them except the last two – I’m trying though, practice makes perfect. Use the third thickest. I’ve been craving this all day. Here,” he hands me the lube. “It’s glycerin-free. Never sound with regular lube; the sugar in it’ll give you a urinary tract infection. Get as much as possible on the rod and the tip of my cock.”

I’m going to faint. I know I’m going to faint. It’s like that time I donated blood and watched the syringe fill. My breathing is shallow as I carefully insert the tip of the rod into his slit.

He must see my queasiness because he smiles at me reassuringly.

“You’re doing great,” he says. “Now lift my cock and let go of the rod; it’ll slip in as deep as possible on its own. Gravity is a beautiful thing.”

I swallow and take a deep breath as I watch inches of steel slide into his body. He winces and then tips his head back with a groan.

“Fuck, that feels so fucking good,” he says. He spreads his legs wider, and the rod slips even deeper.

“It does?” I whisper as though I’m at church – for some reason I feel like I should. “It looks painful.”

“It can be when you’re a beginner,” he says. “But, like I said, I’ve been doing this for years. I used to nearly faint at first, but now my cock craves it.” He lifts his head and looks at me. “Someday yours will too. Now gently push it deeper.”

Even my steady hands shake a little as I insert the last couple of inches. I look at Brian’s face, hoping I’ll be able to read his reactions to the sensation.

He looks positively blissful.

“I can’t go any deeper,” I whisper.

“Actually, you can,” he says. “But I’ll do it. I don’t want to freak you out too much.” He holds the rod between his thumb and middle finger and slowly pushes it in, wincing when he overcomes the barrier I’d encountered. “Oh God,” he says, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Is that ‘oh God this feels good,’ or ‘oh God, this hurts like hell?” I ask, still whispering.

“Definitely, ‘oh God, this feels good,'” he says. He’s breathing shallow and fast. “Here,” he says, pulling my hand toward him so I can hold the rod again. “Fuck me with it. Just an inch or two though. The pleasure comes from the pressure the rod puts on your bladder and prostate.”

I do what he says as carefully as I can. He’s hard now, and the rod slides easily. He’s clearly trying to keep himself from thrusting – a fact for which I’m very glad. His throat and chest are flushed and shiny with sweat. He grabs my other hand and puts it between his legs, encouraging me to press my fingertips against the hard ridge behind his balls.

I can feel the rod moving inside him. Arousal slams into me like a runaway train.

“Just a little deeper,” he moans. “I’m gonna come.”

His hair is damp and clinging to his forehead. His eyes are still shut. It’s only a matter of seconds till he shoots . . .

. . . or rather pulses. His come doesn’t spurt like it usually does; instead it gushes out around the sound for what seems like forever. When he finally opens his eyes, he looks a little lost, and it takes a moment for him to come back down to earth. He grabs my wrist.

“Don’t move,” he says breathlessly. “Let me do this. Putting the rods in feels good, but pulling them out can hurt.”

He slides the rod out very slowly and then braces himself as he pulls the last two inches free.

“Fuck!” he shouts. “Fuck, that fucking kills!” He’s still panting when he opens his eyes and looks at me. He gives me one of his grins. “But it’s more than worth it.”

He gets up and cleans the rod in the sink. “Baby shampoo and rubbing alcohol,” he says from the bathroom. “Which is why you never want to sound with someone else’s rods. You don’t know if they’ve been cleaned properly; chances are they probably haven’t.”

I smile at his didactic tone. Only Brian can go from having his cock stuffed to lecturing about safe sex in a heartbeat.

He comes back to bed and puts the rod back in its box and then puts the box in a drawer in the nightstand. “You were great,” he purrs darkly. “How about a reward – or three?”


	13. Tickling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian helps Justin discover two hitherto unknown kinks.

TICKLING

It should’ve occurred to me that first night I went home with Brian, but it didn’t. Nothing occurred to me that night except that I was with the most amazing person I’d ever met. But looking back . . . yeah, that’s different. Every detail, every moment, is carved into my memory, among them the fact that Brian licked my ass! Holy shit! Now, since I’m free to surf porn on Brian’s computer, I know that rimming isn’t all that exotic, but to me that night it sure as hell was. And what was even weirder was that I wanted to lick his ass too, and I would’ve if he’d given me the opening . . . Lol! Blame him for the stupid puns, too. He’s as shameless about wordplay as he is about every other kind of play. In a lot of ways, he’s just an adult-sized kid. You should see how excited he gets over my science projects.

Anyway, back to the issue of what hadn’t occurred to me that first night but should’ve. What if he was a sick weirdo with some kind of bizarre fetish? What if he liked stuffing gerbils up his butt – or, even worse, up mine? I didn’t want a rodent stuffed up my butt. Hell, it wasn’t until I saw his beautiful cock that I wanted anything stuffed up my butt.

God knows what could’ve happened to me. It’s strange feeling stupid for doing the most important thing in your life, but it’s true. Brian, himself, reminds me on a regular basis, which is pretty rich. Don’t go home with anyone, he tells me. Backrooms, bathhouses, okay. They’re public places. But when you go to someone’s home you’re walking into his lair. Don’t forget that. I’ve wanted to ask whether his lesson derived from an unpleasant experience, but I don’t dare. If he did once go home with someone he shouldn’t have, he’d never tell anyone about it, I’m sure.

Fortunately for me (and God only knows how many other guys), Brian seems to enjoy a wide range of activities and practices but doesn’t seem to fixate on any one thing in particular. In fact, the other day he even told me outright that he doesn’t have a fetish . . .

. . . but you might, he’d said, smiling that sharky sex smile of his. Maybe we should find out.

I’d all but forgotten our conversation until the night the Doc told Brian that he was too skinny to look good in leather pants.

The next day, Brian drove to Philly and bought a pair of leather pants so tight that underwear wasn’t an option. The cow that’d given its life for those pants was obviously created for the sole purpose of making Brian’s long legs and perfect ass look even longer and more perfect. It took a lot of tugging and squirming to get him into said pants, but the result was more than worth it.

“Well?” he asks. He’s standing in front of me shirtless with his arms held open like he did that first night.

I’d speak except suddenly it’s seven million years ago, and humans have not yet developed the capacity to communicate with each other using language. We’re still leaping around, hooting and screeching and humping each other like chimpanzees.

Brian smirks. He knows exactly how amazing he looks. Feigning a yawn, he reaches down and adjusts his hardening cock. The waistband of his pants rests low on his hips, probably a mere fraction of a centimeter from his pubic hair. I weakly wipe the drool from my chin with the back of a shaking hand. His smirk widens.

“I’m assuming these meet with your approval,” he says.

“Touch,” I reply. “Can I you?”

He laughs. “My my. Have we just stumbled across a fetish? Does our young Sunshine have a Thing for leather?”

I want to say no because “having a Thing” for anything sounds weird and perverted, but instead all that comes out of my mouth is a guttural sound that probably means “I’m going to die of sexual arousal in five seconds” in caveman speak. I’m standing in the middle of the loft; he begins walking down the steps slowly. The leather squeaks ever so faintly, and the light accents the huge bulge of his dick. He’s barefoot . . . come to think about it, I might also “have a Thing” for his feet.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, his voice oozing sex through its pores, making his words warm and wet against my cheek.

“Huh? . . . What . . . ?”

“Did you or did you not get a fifteen-hundred on your SATs? That thing in your mouth is called a tongue. It helps you shape words.” He reaches down to cup my dick and gives it a playful squeeze. “I asked what you’d like me to do. Obviously, you’re craving something . . . .” He lets me go and steps back. “Do you want me to take them off?”

“No!” I squeak, and then, just in case he didn’t hear me, I say it again only louder.

“Okay,” he says with an even sharkier smile than before. “Then what?”

“You’ll do anything I ask?” I say warily. There has to be a catch.

“Anything,” he purrs low in his throat. “Anything at all.”

I’m vaguely aware of the fact that there is something sitting on the top of my neck and that it might be a head, so I nod. “Okay . . . Then sit down on the couch,” I say in a voice hardly louder than a whisper.

He turns and walks vvveeerrryyy slowly to the living room. I have never seen . . . God, I have never seen anything more perfect in my life. I follow just as slowly and watch as he sits down, leans back, and spreads his legs. I can’t help my reaction. Fuck dignity. I drop to my knees with a thud, thankful for the soft rug. I’m now eye level with his crotch, and I can see his balls squished and bulging on either side of the seam. I reach out with a shaking hand and touch them, rubbing each in turn with the pad of my thumb. He tips his head back and moans. I’m surprised how soft the leather is. I’d assumed it would be thick, but it’s as thin and smooth as silk. The heat of Brian’s body clings to it. The scent is warm and earthy. I bury my face between his legs and breathe. He reaches down to gently, but firmly, hold my head in place with both of his hands as his hips start moving. I place my hands on the insides of his thighs and spread his legs even wider. I want . . . I want something so badly that I’m shaking all over.

“Brian,” I whimper, my mouth brushing his balls. I lick first one and then the other with the flat of my tongue. It’s good . . . it’s better than good, but I still want something more. For some reason the memory of tickling Brian once in the shower comes to me in vivid Technicolor and surround sound. Without pausing to think, I lift my head and look at him. His dilated pupils have almost eclipsed the hazel, and there’s the sheen of sweat on his flushed face. I stand up, push his legs together, straddle his hips . . .

. . . and then I start tickling him.

His eyes widen with shocked surprise, and his body bucks and writhes between my legs. He’d had no idea I was going to do this . . . but then again, neither did I until a second ago.

“What the . . . ?” He tries to speak, but he can’t. He’s laughing and squirming and struggling to get away from my fingers. I lean forward and nip his ears, which makes him squirm and laugh and struggle even more. He is the most ticklish person I’ve ever met; he’s even worse than Daph.

“Stop!” he shouts breathlessly. “Cut it out!” He wriggles and twists his body in an effort to escape. He feels amazing between my legs as he arches his back and tries to buck me off with each heaving thrust of his hips.

“I’m not kidding,” he gasps. “Justin!”

His voice is frantic, breathless, pleading. I’ve never seen him so out of control. Each time he bucks up, I press down. It’s like we’re fucking, and he’s out of his mind. He’s certifiably crazy if he thinks I’m going to stop. That fathomless itch I’d felt in that place deep inside me where mind and body and pleasure and pain become indistinguishable is being scratched by his every movement.

I’m going to come. I need to come.

“Oh my fucking God!” he yells. “Justin, I’m going to fucking piss myself if you don’t stop!”

Uhm.

Hhhhmmm.

Right. Okay.

Hello, dick, whaddya think about that?

My dick thinks it sounds like fun.

My dick is a pervert.

I don’t stop tickling him.

He grabs my hips in both hands and tries to shove me off his lap, but he’s not able to get a solid hold. He’s writhing too much, breathless with laughter.

“If you make me ruin my pants . . .” he snarls.

His words punch me in the sternum. His leather pants. I’d all but forgotten about them. I groan and squeeze my thighs as tight as I can, pressing down each time he trusts up. I look down. His cock stretches the leather so taut it would rip open the seam if it wasn’t triple-stitched and meant to take a beating.

I tickle him harder.

“Fuck you!” he gasps.

I ride his hips for all I’m worth and then throw my arms around his neck. The thought of him soaking the silk lining of those damn pants crashes through me like a wave on a steep beach. I bury my face between his neck and shoulder and come.

Okay, so here’s the story: I started jerking off when I was thirteen. I must have a billion and one orgasms under my belt (so to speak). I’m a connoisseur of orgasms – an expert attuned to every minute variation. This orgasm blows every previous one I’ve ever had out of the water. It sets a new – and perhaps un-reproducible – benchmark. I fucking burst into tears. I feel Brian wrap his arms around me and hold me so close and tight that there’s no space between us. He cups the back of my head and whispers soft soothing words against my ear. Slowly my convulsive jerking subsides into shaking, but I’m still sobbing like a baby, and I have no idea why.

I’ve just had a life-altering experience, which may sound weird and crazy, but so what. It’s true. Brian must be able to sense the rush of adrenaline and vulnerability flooding my body; he rubs my back in large, leisurely circles. Eventually the shaking turns into shivering and then into a sense of peace so profound it feels like a religious experience.

“You okay?” he whispers.

I can only nod.

“Now, that is a fetish if ever I saw one, and believe me I’ve seen many,” he says. “Congratulations.”

I laugh breathlessly. He says the strangest things sometimes.

“Now get those clothes off and get down on the floor.”

So much for the sweet nothings. I stand up and spend an inordinately long time unbuckling my belt. I feel like my fingers are made out of Jell-O. Brian opens his fly and shoves his pants down to the middle of his thighs. The head of his cock is purple and wet, the slit opened wide by the taut skin.

“Hands and knees,” he barks. I hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper, and before I can take the deep breath I need for his entry, he’s taking me, fucking me with powerful thrusts that mash my face into the carpet. I have to turn my head so I can breathe.

“You liked that, didn’t you Sunshine?” he pants. “You liked having me out of control; you liked having me at your mercy.”

It’s true. I did. A-fucking-lot.

“Did you do it?” I gasp.

“Piss my pants?”

I can’t come again after the orgasm I just had; in fact I might never be able to come again. My balls must’ve exploded. Or, at the very least, I must’ve ejaculated them along with my liquefied brain. But if I could come again, I’d come from his question alone.

“Yeah.”

“Do . . . you . . . really . . . want . . . to . . . know?” he asks breathlessly between grunts.

It’s an odd question; I have to think about it with the handful of brain cells that survived my orgasm. Yes, part of me does want to know, but a larger part doesn’t. What if he says he didn’t? It would detract from the fantasy. And what if he said he did . . . ? Well, that would be weird. Pissing himself doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Brian did – which of course adds to the thrill . . .

“No,” I reply, and he laughs.

“Thought so . . .”

It sounds like he’s going to finish his thought, but then his hips go into overdrive. His thrusts turn savage. He threads his fingers between mine and plunges over his edge with a shout. I have the breath knocked out of me when he collapses bonelessly on my back.

It takes a long time for him to recover; when he does, he asks if I want to go to Babylon.

“Okay,” I say reluctantly.

He gets up and pulls up his pants; he has to inhale to zip the fly.

“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” he says and sounds like he means it.

“I . . . It’s not . . .” I stammer.

“Spit it out,” he says. He looks amused.

I try again. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just . . . it’s just . . .”

He raises his eyebrows. “It’s just what?”

“It’s just that I don’t want you wearing those pants,” I say in one big long rush of breath. His eyebrows arch even higher.

“What?” he asks incredulously. “You’re not serious. You do not get to say what I can and can’t do . . . or wear.”

I look away. I’ve overstepped, and it feels like shit. Suddenly, I want to be back in his arms, listening to his amused but gentle words.

“Forget it,” I mumble.

He’s silent for a long time. I don’t look at him. He takes a deep breath. His voice is rough when he speaks.

“Okay,” he says. “The Doc will just have to continue believing his utter bullshit about me being skinny. Someone more important has spoken.”

My head whips around, and I open my mouth to say something – although I don’t know what.

“Don’t,” he says, holding up his hand. “Whatever it is you’re about to say, don’t say it.” He turns and walks up the steps. I watch his retreating back. I have no idea what to think.

“Come on,” he yells from the bathroom. His voice is almost drowned out by the sound of the shower. “Babylon calls. I’ve got to get ready all over again. Thanks to you, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to wear.”

I grin and stand up. In other words, I’ll have time to shower, shave, get dressed, eat some left over pizza, and write a sequel to “War and Peace.” It takes him for fucking ever to get ready to go out.

“Coming!” I yell and then laugh. Coming, indeed.

Brian opens the shower door and lets me in. “How’s it feel to have entered the world of kinky perverts?” he asks.

“Uhm . . .” Come on. How does one answer a question like that? He starts soaping my back but then turns me around and kisses me deeply. When he stops, he doesn’t step back. Instead he rests his forehead against mine and takes a deep breath.

“Promise me,” he whispers. “Promise you’ll never do that with anyone else. Promise me I’m the only one.”

I can only nod. My heart is pounding. I think he might’ve just told me he loves me.


	14. Breath Stopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin comes home horny as all hell after his first taste of vigilantism.
> 
> *this is not from the Everything He Knows collection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is about breath play, which is the act of restricting breathing for erotic purposes. I am not promoting the act, which can be very dangerous (and even deadly) if not practiced safely and in the presence of someone you trust completely (hence Michael's freak-out when he found Brian practicing auto-erotic asphyxiation).

Thump thump thump. Justin’s heart beats in his ears, electric bursts of sound, as first one kick lands and then another. Shouts of encouragement and cries of pain twine around the rhythm of his pulse like live wire – the snap and crackle of satisfied revenge. Take that, you homophobic motherfuckers! Their enemies flee, vanquished and humiliated, their bare asses white as fish bellies. High fives and slapped backs. The exhilaration of victory goes straight to his groin. The lights of Liberty Avenue smear as he runs fast and then faster. Bumped shoulders, near stumbles. Cries of “watch where you’re going!”

Brian. He must get home to Brian before he goes to Babylon because what he wants to do can’t be done in the backroom. He wants to make Brian yelp with surprise, vertiginous pleasure on a knife’s edge of pain. He charges up the stairs, two at a time, and throws open the door. Darkness. For a moment he panics, Brian’s already gone, but then he sees him standing by the window, silhouetted against the sparks of lit windows, glimpses of other people’s lives not as thrilling as his own. Brian tips his head back, and the tip of the joint glows.

He doesn’t reply to Brian’s “about time,” instead dropping to his knees, his face level with Brian’s crotch, fumbling with the fly of Brian’s jeans, yanking them off Brian’s hips. Cock. He needs cock. “Jesus,” Brian breathes when Justin swallows him to the root, sucking him to swollen. Brian doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t care. Justin’s fingers wrap around the base of Brian’s dick tight as a cock ring, while his other hand unbuckles his belt. He wants marks. He wants to leave marks. He wants to tighten a noose, and for a second, just a second make Brian afraid.

Brian’s cock’s hard pulse, it’s the only thing in the world. The only thing that matters. He sinks his fingertips into the flesh of Brian’s ass, the shape of red crescent moons tattooing the muscle that gives only slightly under his assault. Brian’s wordless shout of surprise when the head of his cock slams against the back of Justin’s throat, slippery with spit. Justin gags, but it’s not enough. He wants to choke on Brian’s cock, lose his breath with each urged-on thrust. He pinches Brian’s hip and twists the skin, gagging and choking on Brian’s instinctive plunge of escape.

“Come.” It’s only one word, but enough to drop him back on his heels, the sudden release of his cock making Brian stagger. “Not yet.” His hoarse voice mingling with Brian’s angry groan. Frustrated. Thwarted. The spiraling flight of orgasm denied despite the throbbing in his balls, the tensing in his belly. Justin’s mouth is full of viscous saliva. He spits into his palm. Brian’s whole body bucks when Justin starts to jerk him off. Stroking and stopping stroking and stopping until Brian stumbles backward and lands in the chair, caught before a fall. He takes a hit, calming himself.

Brian holds the joint, and Justin breathes in the brief lightheadedness, the momentary placidity. Grabbing his buckle, he snakes his belt free from its loops. Will Brian let him? Will Brian let him stop his breath? And if so for how long? Blue-lipped? Eyes rolled back? Justin strips to the skin. Brian’s gaze swallows him whole. He kisses Brian – the violence of the night still in his mouth like whiskey – and wraps the belt around Brian’s neck. Arched eyebrows but otherwise no response, no struggle, nothing but a quick bob of his Adam’s apple and a shallow breath presaging asphyxiation.

He kneels between Brian’s legs, hooking Brian’s knees over his shoulders, revealing more than Brian often permits. Brian’s head is tipped back. The joint to his lips again, careless with his body, reckless with sensation. Justin drops his gaze to the tight pucker, wets a finger and slides it in, no preamble, no warning, just penetration deep and sudden, startling Brian, making him drop the joint. Justin laughs, pinches it out with his free hand. Soft warm flesh – Brian on the inside. The abrupt contractions. Next to the tongue, the rectum is the strongest muscle in the body.

The slide is slick, effortless, Brian’s prostate easy to find – the almond-shaped gland, the sweet spot. Brian reaches between his legs, stills Justin’s hand, his grip tight, demanding. “Milk it,” he snarls as though lust and anger are Janus-faced, but Justin’s not in the mood to please. He pulls back, leaving Brian empty, order ignored. Another orgasm dammed at its source as his cock lurches, slapping his belly, leaving behind translucent liquid pearls. Justin’s head between Brian’s legs, his tongue licking from asshole to balls, dipping in, teasing. Over and over, forcing Brian’s legs apart when they start to squeeze.

He looks up. The belt’s still there, draped loosely. He inserts his finger again and adds a second, a third. Brian’s on the edge of the chair. How easy to work in a fourth. But no. Not tonight. Tonight is about the noose growing tighter. He eases his fingers free as slowly as he’d slid them in – there’s no desire to hurt or harm, just test the boundaries, the edges of love, the verge of trust. No pain. He’s already inflicted enough tonight. It made him thirsty, but he won’t sate it now. Tomorrow night. Tomorrow night is another patrol.

He straddles Brian’s hips, and Brian grabs his ass, thrusting, searching for contact, for friction, for release, eyes wide, close – as close as Brian will ever get – to begging. A plea on the tip of his tongue, but what emerges is Justin’s name, his voice choking on desire. Justin lets him find his edge and then freezes. Over and over till Brian’s slippery with sweat, his hair soaked and clinging to his brow. No one else makes Brian feel like this. Justin sees it in his eyes. No one but him. Others can try, but they will always fail. Always.

He’s awake, alive to every cue, not a slave to his climax like Brian is. It’s the only way. He’ll keep Brian safe. Nothing between his attention and intent but awareness. The slow incremental cinching of the belt, every sense tuned to Brian’s body. Every single twitch of muscle, every abbreviated breath. Tightening. Tightening. Watching for a hint of fear, for a signal to stop. There is none. Brian’s gaze goes hazy, and his eyes flirt with rolling backward, hazel turning to white, lids flittering, lashes clumped with sweat. “Come,” he whispers against Brian’s ear just as Brian’s breathing stops.

Brian’s body is all animal instinct now, the struggle to come and breathe equal to each other. Equal in need. His fingertips sink into the flesh of Justin ass, holding him still as he thrusts again and again and again before stumbling over the edge, a sharp and sudden fall. The instant Justin feels his body freeze on an upward thrust, he lets go of the belt, letting the noose open as a surge of breath follows a surge of release. He’s not surprised when Brian starts to cry – he’d done the same when Brian had played with his breath.

He, himself, doesn’t come. He doesn’t want to. Brian’s climax was his own, Brian’s ecstasy his inheritance. He helps Brian stand and leads him to the couch, sandwiching him between his body and the cushions, his head on Brian’s chest, savoring Brian’s every breath, every beat of his heart. They won’t be going to Babylon. Justin is sure of that. Brian will sleep, and then he’ll wake and that is when Justin will have his release. Brian thrusting languidly, still thrumming with exhaustion, his speed only increasing when Justin urges him on. Urges him to his own safe sweet refuge.


End file.
